The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom.
You can be a rank insider as well as a rank outsider.
It's a funny thing that when a man hasn't anything on earth to worry about, he goes off and gets married.
Skepticism, is that anything more than we used to mean when we said, Well, what have we here?
Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting.
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces Between stars—on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home To scare myself with my own desert places.