It is, I assume, quite easy to wither into old age, and hard to grow into it.
For after all we make our faces as we go along.
instant intimacy was too often followed by disillusion.
I can tell you that solitude Is not all exaltation, inner space Where the soul breathes and work can be done. Solitude exposes the nerve, Raises up ghosts. The past, never at rest, flows through it.
It is clear that we do not exactly choose our poems; our poems choose us.
So let the world go, but hold fast to joy.