Time marks us while we are marking time.
Love begets love. This torment is my joy.
In our age, if a boy or girl is untalented, the odds are in favor of their thinking they want to write.
I learned not to fear infinity, The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
You must believe: a poem is a holy thing - a good poem, that is. The poem, even a short time after being written, seems no miracle; unwritten, it seems something beyond the capacity of the gods.