Habits Are Happiness Of A Sort...

A Poem Is, So To Speak, A Way Of Making You Forget How You Wrote It.

Both In Verse And In Prose [karl] Shapiro Loves, Partly Out Of Indignation And Partly Out Of Sheer Mischievousness, To Tell The Naked Truths Or Half-truths Or Quarter-truths That Will Make Anybody's Hair Stand On End; He Is Always Crying: "but He Hasn't Any Clothes On!" About An Emperor Who Is Half The Time Surprisingly Well-dressed.

We Can't Tell Our Life From Our Wish

Most Poets, Most Good Poets Even, No Longer Have The Heart To Write About What Is Most Terrible In The World Of The Present: The Bombs Waiting Beside The Rockets, The Hundreds Of Millions Staring Into The Temporary Shelter Of Their Television Sets, The Decline Of The West That Seems Less A Decline Than The Fall Preceding An Explosion.

Age Could Not Wither Nor Custom Stale Her Infinite Monotony: In Fact, Neither Age Nor Custom Could Do Anything (as They Said, Their Voices Rising) With The American Novelist Gertrude Johnson.