Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.

A good poet will usually borrow from authors remote in time, or alien in language, or diverse in interest.

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Those who arrive at the end of the journey are not those who began.

There are flood and drought over the eyes and in the mouth, dead water and dead sand contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil gapes at the vanity of toil, laughs without mirth. This is the death of the earth.

Death has a hundred hands and walks by a thousand ways.

Neither way is better. / Both ways are necessary. / It is also necessary / To make a choice between them.