I am a man now. Pass your hand over my brow. You can feel the place where the brains grow.

Is there a place here for the spirit ? Is there time on this brief platform for anything other than mind 's failure to explain itself?

The nearest we approach God ...is as creative beings. The poet, by echoing the primary imagination, recreates. Through his work he forces those who read him to do the same, thus bringing them... nearer to the actual being of God as displayed in action.

Poetry is that / which arrives at the intellect / by way of the heart.

It is too late to start For destinations not of the heart . I must stay here with my hurt.

We live in our own world , A world that is too small For you to stoop and enter Even on hands and knees, The adult subterfuge.

They left no books , Memorial to their lonely thought In grey parishes: rather they wrote On men's hearts and in the minds Of young children sublime words Too soon forgotten. God in his time Or out of time will correct this.