Stand on the highest pavement of the stair- Lean on a garden urn- Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

Words strain, Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, Will not stay still.

If time and space, as sages say, Are things which cannot be, The sun which does not feel decay No greater is than we. So why, Love, should we ever pray To live a century? The butterfly that lives a day Has lived eternity.

Bad poets imitate, good poets steal.

The greatness of literature cannot be determined solely by literary standards though we must remember that whether it is literature or not can be determined only by literary standards.

We learn what poetry is - if we ever learn - by reading it.

That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.