Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance

A woman drew her long black hair out tight, And fiddled whisper music on those strings, And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings, And crawled head downward down a blackened wall.

In the mountains, there you feel free.

Maturing as a poet means maturing as the whole man, experiencing new emotions appropriate to one's age, and with the same intensity as the emotions of youth.

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.

An election is coming. Universal peace is declared and the foxes have a sincere interest in prolonging the lives of the poultry.

After such knowledge, what forgiveness?