Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity.
The majority of poems one outgrows and outlives, as one outgrows and outlives the majority of human passions.
To make an end is to make a beginning.
I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.
Do I dare disturb the universe?
The poet's mind is in fact a receptacle for seizing and storing up numberless feelings, phrases, images, which remain there until all the particles which can unite to form a new compound are present together.