Poetry is often generations in advance of the thought of its time.

But childhood prolonged, cannot remain a fairyland. It becomes a hell.

The measured blood beats out the year's delay.

I don't like quintessential certitude.

I hope that one or two immortal lyrics will come out of all this tumbling around.

A thousand kindnesses do not make up for a thousand blows.

... how much of our inner substance is it good for us to give to public griefs? The whole modern tendency to agonize over the suffering of the entire globe is surely something new.