All Great Poetry Is Dipped In The

Our Hearts Seemed Safe In Our Breasts And Sang To The Light The Marrow In The Bone We Dreamed Was Safe. . . The Blood In The Veins, The Sap In The Tree Were Springs Of Deity.

Why Not Be Oneself? That Is The Whole Secret Of A Successful Appearance. If One Is A Greyhound, Why Try To Look Like A Pekingese?

Your Soul: Pure Glucose Edged With Hints Of Tentative And Half-soiled Tints

It Is As Unseeing To Ask What Is The Use Of Poetry As It Would Be To Ask What Is The Use Of Religion.

What An Artist Is For Is To Tell Us What We See But Do Not Know That We See.