Everything seems an echo of something else.
The poem is not a thing we see; it is, rather, a light by which we may see.
Maybe a man has to sell his soul to get the power to do good.
Nobody had ever told me that anything could be like this.
Historical sense and poetic sense should not, in the end, be contradictory, for if poetry is the little myth we make, history is the big myth we live, and in our living, constantly remake.
There is no country but the heart.