One Of The Great Criticisms Of Poets

One Of The Quainter Quirks Of Life Is That We Shall Never Know Who Dies On The Dame Day As We Do Ourselves.

I Have Started To Say "a Quarter Of A Century" Or "thirty Years Back" About My Own Life.

I Like Spaghetti Because You Don't Have To Take Your Eyes Off The Book To Pick About Among It, It's All The Same.

Home Is So Sad. It Stays As It Was Left, / Shaped To The Comfort Of The Last To Go / As If To Win Them Back

The Poetic Impulse Is Distinct From Ideas About Things Or Feelings About Things, Though It May Use These. It's More Like A Desire To Separate A Piece Of One's Experience & Set It Up On Its Own, An Isolated Object Never To Trouble You Again, At Least Not For A Bit. In The Absence Of This Impulse Nothing Stirs.