It's a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!

Death will be too late to bring us aid.

By listening to his language of his locality the poet begins to learn his craft. It is his function to lift, by use of imagination and the language he hears, the material conditions and appearances of his environment to the sphere of the intelligence where they will have new currency.

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.

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

I think these days when there is so little to believe in——when the old loyalties——God, country, and the hope of Heaven——aren't very real, we are more dependent than we should be on our friends. The only thing left to believe in——someone who seems beautiful.

Either I exist or I do not exist, and no amount of pap which I happen to be lapping can dull me to the loss.