A Poem Should Not Mean But Be.

There Is No Dusk To Be, There Is No Dawn That Was, Only There's Now, And Now, And The Wind In The Grass.

A Poem Should Be Palpable And Mute As A Globed Fruit.

Wildness And Silence Disappeared From The Countryside, Sweetness Fell From The Air, Not Because Anyone Wished Them To Vanish Or Fall But Because Throughways Had To Floor The Meadows With Cement To Carry The Automobiles Which Advancing Technology Produced. Tropical Beaches Turned Into High-priced Slums Where Thousand-room Hotels Elbowed Each Other For Glimpses Of Once-famous Surf Not Because Those Who Loved The Beaches Wanted Them There But Because Enormous Jets Could Bring A Million Tourists Every Year - And Therefore Did.

Keepers Of Books, Keepers Of Print And Paper On The Shelves, Librarians Are Keepers Also Of The Records Of The Human Spiritthe Records Of Men's Watch Upon The World And On Themselves.

What You Really Have To Know Is One: Yourself. And The Only Way You Can Know That One Is In The Mirror Of The Others. And The Only Way You Can See Into The Mirror Of The Others Is By Love Or Its Opposite—by Profound Emotion. Certainly Not By Curiosity—by Dancing Around Asking, Looking, Making Notes. You Have To Live Relationships To Know.