Nature does not complete things. She is chaotic. Man must finish, and he does so by making a garden and building a wall.

What are we? Young or new? We must be something.

Poets like Shakespeare know more about poetry than any $25 an hour man.

My definition of poetry (if I were forced to give one) would be this: words that have become deeds.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day.

Sentences are not different enough to hold the attention unless they are dramatic. No ingenuity of varying structure will do. All that can save them is the speaking tone of voice somehow entangled in the words and fastened to the page for the ear of the imagination. That is all that can save poetry from sing-song, all that can save prose from itself.

It takes all sorts of in and outdoor schooling To get adapted to my kind of fooling.