The reading of a poem should be an experience. Its writing must be all the more so.
I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
The purpose of poetry is to make life complete in itself.
Make the visible a little hard to see.