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

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye.

When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud And goes down burning into the gulf below, No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud At what has happened. Birds, at least must know It is the change to darkness in the sky. Murmuring something quiet in her breast, One bird begins to close a faded eye; Or overtaken too far from his nest, Hurrying low above the grove, some waif Swoops just in time to his remembered tree. At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe! Now let the night be dark for all of me. Let the night be too dark for me to see Into the future. Let what will be, be.

Fortunately, we don't need to know how bad an age is. There is something we can always be doing without reference to how good or bad the age is.

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

He burned his house down for the fire insurance and spent the proceeds on a telescope.

Space ails us moderns: we are sick with space.