Hell is a half-filled auditorium.
Heaven gives its glimpses only to those not in position to look too close.
For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn't know I knew. I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew.
I often say of George Washington that he was one of the few in the whole history of the world who was not carried away by power.
A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree~ And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.