Everything seems an echo of something else.

I longed to know the world's name.

More and more Emerson recedes grandly into history, as the future he predicted becomes a past.

There ain't anything worth doing a man can do and keep his dignity. Can you figure out a single thing you really please-God like to do you can do and keep your dignity? The human frame just ain't built that way.

The poem is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful.

If something takes too long, something happens to you. You become all and only the thing you want and nothing else, for you have paid too much for it, too much in wanting and too much in waiting and too much in getting.

How do poems grow? They grow out of your life.