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

Yes, and even for the past...that it will turn out to have been all right for what it was. Something I can accept. Mistakes made by the self I had to be or was not able to be.

GATHERING LEAVES Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons. I make a great noise Of rustling all day Like rabbit and deer Running away. But the mountains I raise Elude my embrace, Flowing over my arms And into my face. I may load and unload Again and again Till I fill the whole shed, And what have I then? Next to nothing for weight, And since they grew duller From contact with earth, Next to nothing for color. Next to nothing for use. But a crop is a crop, And who's to say where The harvest shall stop?

I've given offense by saying I'd as soon write free verse as play tennis with the net down.

I'm always saying something that's just the edge of something more.

I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.

The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom.