One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
Every poem is a momentary stay against the confusion of the world.
The snake stood up for evil in the Garden.
Why make so much of fragmentary blue In here and there a bird, or butterfly, Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye, When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?
Lovers, forget your love And list to the love of these She a window flower And he a winter breeze.
To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.