Nor is there wanting in the press Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in it nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth. The tale of earth's unhonored things Sounds nobler there than 'neath the sun; And the mind whirls and the heart sings, And a shout greets the daring one.
We dance round in a ring and suppose, but the secret sits in the middle and knows.
Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.
Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting.
Life is tons of discipline.
There are few sorrows, however poignant, in which a good income is of no avail.