All the poet can do today is warn. That is why true Poets must be truthful.

Do you know what would hold me together on a battlefield? The sense that I was perpetuating the language in which Keats and the rest of them wrote!

I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's

Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do

Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.

Courage was mine, and I had mystery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled.

No-man's land under snow is like the face of the moon: chaotic, crater ridden, uninhabitable, awful, the abode of madness.