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

It's the light of the oncoming train.

I'm sure that writing isn't a craft, that is, something for which you learn the skills and go on turning out. It must come from some deep impulse, deep inspiration. That can't be taught, it can't be what you use in teaching.

Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.

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.

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

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