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

In the end, there is no end.

Most poetry is very formal, but when a modern poet is formal he gets more attention for it than old poets did.

We feel the machine slipping from our hands As if someone else were steering; If we see light at the end of the tunnel, It's the light of the oncoming train.

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

I want to apologize for plaguing you with so many telephone calls last November and December. When the 'enthusiasm' is coming on me it is accompanied by a feverish reaching out to my friends. After its over I wince and wither.

We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.