The basic stimulus to the intelligence is doubt, a feeling that the meaning of an experience is not self-evident.

Some books are undeservedly forgotten; none are undeservedly remembered.

A poet feels the impulse to create a work of art when the passive awe provoked by an event is transformed into a desire to express that awe in a rite of worship.

Rhymes, meters, stanza forms, etc., are like servants. If the master is fair enough to win their affection and firm enough to command their respect, the result is an orderly happy household. If he is too tyrannical, they give notice; if he lacks authority, they become slovenly, impertinent, drunk and dishonest.

All that we are not stares back at what we are.

Art is our chief means of breaking bread with the dead.

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