At Midnight Tears Run Into Your Ears.

But It's Silly To Suggest The Writing Of Poetry Is Something Ethereal, A Sort Of Soul-crashing, Devastating Emotional Experience That Wrings You. I Have No Fancy Ideas About Poetry. ... It Doesn't Come To You On The Wings Of A Dove. It's Something You Have To Work Hard At.

Up From The Bronze, I Saw Water Without A Flaw Rush To Its Rest In Air Reach To Its Rest, And Fall.

Because Language Is The Carrier Of Ideas, It Is Easy To Believe That It Should Be Very Little Else Than Such A Carrier.

Perhaps This Very Instant Is Your Time.

But Childhood Prolonged, Cannot Remain A Fairyland. It Becomes A Hell.