Pity the planet, all joy gone from this sweet volcanic cone; peace to our children when they fall in small war on the heel of small war--until the end of time to police the earth, a ghost orbiting forever lost in our monotonous sublime

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

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

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

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

Pity the planet, all joy gone from this sweet volcanic cone; peace to our children when they fall in small war on the heel of small war--until the end of time to police the earth, a ghost orbiting forever lost in our monotonous sublime

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