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.

The Poet Speaks To All Men Of That Other Life Of Theirs That They Have Smothered And Forgotten.

It Is Part Of The Poet's Work To Show Each Man What He Sees But Does Not Know He Sees.

[history Is] That Terrible Mill In Which Sawdust Rejoins Sawdust.

What The Reporters Are Like! They Are Mad With Excitement At The Thought Of My Approaching Demise. Kind Sister Farquhar, My Nurse, Spends Much Of Her Time In Throwing Them Downstairs. But One Got In The Other Day, And Asked Me If I Mind The Fact That I Must Die.