Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.

The word is the making of the world

At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.

She says, "But in contentment I still feel The need for imperishable bliss." Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams And our desires. Is there no change of death in paradise? Does ripe fruit never fall? or do the boughs Hang always heavy in that perfect sky, Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth, With rivers like our own that seek for seas They never find, the same receding shores That never touch with inarticulate pang?

Life is the elimination of what is dead.

Accuracy of observation is the equivalent of accuracy of thinking.

Most poets who have little or nothing to say are concerned primarily with the way in which they say it ... if it is true that the style of a poem and the poem itself are one, ... it may be ... that the poets who have little or nothing to say are, or will be, the poets that matter.