THESE are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night and the heart plunges lower than night.

What can any of us do with his talent but try to develop his vision, so that through frequent failures we may learn better what we have missed in the past.

No ideas but in things.

Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.

Afraid lest he be caught up in a net of words, tripped up, bewildered and so defeated-thrown aside-a man hesitates to write down his innermost convictions.

All women are not Helen, I know that, but have Helen in their hearts.

The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.