I Can Connect Nothing With Nothing

At The Violet Hour, When The Eyes And Back Turn Upward From The Desk, When The Human Engine Waits Like A Taxi Throbbing Waiting I Tiresias, Though Blind, Throbbing Between Two Lives.

With Out Some Kind Of God, Man Is Not Very Intresting

The Good Poet Welds His Theft Into A Whole Of Feeling Which Is Unique, Utterly Different From That From Which It Was Torn; The Bad Poet Throws It Into Something Which Has No Cohesion.

Life Is Long Between The Desire And The Spasm.

Honest Criticism And Sensitive Appreciation Are Directed Not Upon The Poet But Upon The Poetry.