It is difficult to get the news from poetry, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.

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

But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It is directly, that is, of the senses, and since the senses do not exist without an object for their employment all art is necessarily objective. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents.

THE THOUGHTFUL LOVER Deny yourself all half things. Have it or leave it. But it will keep—or it is not worth the having. Never start anything you can't finish— However do not lose faith because you are starved! She loves you she says. Believe it —tomorrow. But today the particulars of poetry that difficult art require your whole attention.

My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.

But time in only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there'll be mushrooms, fairy-ring mushrooms in the grass, sweetest of all fungi.

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Your knees are a southern breeze.