Poetry is play. I'd even rather have you think of it as a sport. For instance, like football.

The chance is the remotest, Of its going much longer unnoticed, That I'm not keeping pace With the headlong human race

I am one who has been acquainted with the night

I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate wilfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better.

You can't get too much winter in the winter.

I'm not a teacher, but an awakener.

Pressed into service means pressed out of shape.