There is no comment on pictures but pictures, on music but music, on poems but poetry. If you do, you do. If you don't, you don't. And that's all there is to that.

The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned

As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.

The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.

Poetry demands a different material than prose. It uses another facet of the same fact... the spontaneous conformation of language as it is heard.

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.

I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it.