As If One Could Do What One

The Authors Of Book Reviews Would Consider Themselves Dishonored Were They To Mention, As They Should, The Subject Of The Book.

In Our Day There Are No Longer Any Ideas, Or They Are Scarcer Than Hens' Teeth.

Yes, I Read. I Have That Absurd Habit. I Like Beautiful Poems, Moving Poetry, And All The Beyond Of That Poetry. I Am Extraordinarily Sensitive To Those Poor, Marvelous Words Left In Our Dark Night By A Few Men I Never Knew.

Geniuses Are Like Ocean Liners: They Should Never Meet.

O Months Of Blossoming, Months Of Transfigurations, May Without Cloud And June Stabbed To The Heart, I Shall Not Ever Forget The Lilacs Or The Roses Nor Those The Spring Has Kept Folded Away Apart.