A Person Is A Process, One That

When You Begin To Read A Poem You Are Entering A Foreign Country Whose Laws And Language And Life Are A Kind Of Translation Of Your Own; But To Accept It Because Its Stews Taste Exactly Like Your Old Mother's Hash, Or To Reject It Because The Owl-headed Goddess Of Wisdom In Its Temple Is Fatter Than The Statue Of Liberty, Is An Equal Mark Of That Want Of Imagination, That Inaccessibility To Experience, Of Which Each Of Us Who Dies A Natural Death Will Die.

We Can't Tell Our Life From Our Wish

The Real War Poets Are Always War Poets, Peace Or Any Time.

One Whitman Is Miracle Enough, And When He Comes Again It Will Be The End Of The World.

Doesn't The World Need The Painter's Praise Anymore?