The old dog barks backward without getting up I can remember when he was a pup.
Heaven gives its glimpses only to those not in position to look too close.
Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting. . . . Read it a hundred times; it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went.
Only God and I knew what I meant when I wrote it, now only God knows
A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.
I hate the idea that you ought to read the whole of anybody.