Beloved, we are always in the wrong, Handling so clumsily our stupid lives, Suffering too little or too long, Too careful even in our selfish loves: The decorative manias we obey Die in grimaces round us every day, Yet through their tohu-bohu comes a voice Which utters an absurd command - Rejoice.

Language is the mother, not the handmaiden, of thought; words will tell you things you never thought or felt before.

The camera may do justice to laughter, but must degrade sorrow.

Every poet has his dream reader: mine keeps a look out for curious prosodic fauna like bacchics and choriambs.

The poet who writes "free" verse is like Robinson Crusoe on his desert island: he must do all his cooking, laundry and darning for himself. In a few exceptional cases, this manly independence produces something original and impressive, but more often the result is squalor - dirty sheets on the unmade bed and empty bottles on the unswept floor.

Machines are beneficial to the degree that they eliminate the need for labor, harmful to the degree that they eliminate the need for skill.

What is a Professor of Poetry? How can poetry be professed?