O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow, Make the day seem to us less brief... Retard the sun with gentle mist; Enchant the land with amethyst.
A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being.
I hate the idea that you ought to read the whole of anybody.
To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.
Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in its nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth.
All thought is a feat of association; having what's in front of you bring up something in your mind that you almost didn't know you knew