... Everyone Young Going Down The Long

Spring, Of All Seasons Most Gratuitous, Is Fold Of Untaught Flower, Is Race Of Water, Is Earth's Most Multiple, Excited Daughter; And Those She Has Least Use For See Her Best, Their Paths Grown Craven And Circuitous, Their Visions Mountain-clear, Their Needs Immodest.

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live.

It's Easy To Write When You've Nothing To Write About (that Is, When You Are Young).

To Start At A New Place Is Always To Feel Incompetent & Unwanted.

It Is Fatal To Decide, Intellectually, What Good Poetry Is Because You Are Then In Honour Bound To Try To Write It, Instead Of The Poems That Only You Can Write.