Children, To Be Illustrious Is Sad.

Till I, High In The Tower Of My Time Among Familiar Ruins, Began To Cry For Accident, Sickness, Justice, War And Crime, Because All Died, Because I Had To Die. The Snow Fell, The Trees Stood, The Promise Kept, And A Child I Slept.

When You Write It Doesn't Occur To You That Somebody Could Think Different From What You Do.

Language Is Remarkable, Except Under The Extreme Constraints Of Mathematics And Logic, It Never Can Talk Only About What It's Supposed To Talk About But Is Always Spreading Around.

I Sometimes Talk About The Making Of A Poem Within The Poem.

Religion And Science Both Profess Peace (and The Sincerity Of The Professors Is Not Being Doubted), But Each Always Turns Out To Have A Dominant Part In Any War That Is Going Or Contemplated.