Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?

Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting.

No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.

Hell is a half-filled auditorium.

I hold it to be the inalienable right of anybody to go to hell in his own way.

Poets need not go to Niagara to write about the force of falling water.

Pressed into service means pressed out of shape.