I saw the spiders marching through the air, Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day In latter August when the hay Came creaking to the barn. But where The wind is westerly, Where gnarled November makes the spiders fly Into the apparitions of the sky, They purpose nothing but their ease and die Urgently beating east to sunrise and the sea.

If youth is a defect, it is one we outgrow too soon.

It's the light of the oncoming train.

And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.

Talking about the past is like a cat's trying to explain climbing down a ladder.

Everywhere, giant finned cars nose forward like fish; a savage servility slides by on grease.

Poetry is not the record of an event: it is an event.