Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in its nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth.

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

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

No memory of having starred atones for later disregard, or keeps the end from being hard.

I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate wilfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better.

Oh, come forth into the storm and rout And be my love in the rain.

I could define poetry this way: it is that which is lost out of both prose and verse in translation.