A Poet Clings To His Own Tradition

At The Point When Continuity Was Interrupted By The First Nuclear Explosion, It Would Have Been Too Easy To Recover The Formal Sediment Which Linked Us With An Age Of Poetic Decorum, Of A Preoccupation With Poetic Sounds.

Thus, The Poet's Word Is Beginning To Strike Forcefully Upon The Hearts Of All Men, While Absolute Men Of Letters Think That They Alone Live In The Real World.

My Readers At That Time Were Still Men Of Letters; But There Had To Be Other People Waiting To Read My Poems.

The Poet Does Not Fear Death, Not Because He Believes In The Fantasy Of Heroes, But Because Death Constantly Visits His Thoughts And Is Thus An Image Of A Serene Dialogue.

War, I Have Always Said, Forces Men To Change Their Standards, Regardless Of Whether Their Country Has Won Or Lost.