I Cannot Believe That The Inscrutable Universe

The Terrible Beast, That No One May Understand, Came To My Side, And Put Down His Head In Love.

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.

Song, Like A Wing, Tears Through My Breast, My Side, And Madness Chooses Out My Voice Again, Again.

It Is Through The Acceptance Of A Variety Of Aethetic And Intellectual Points Of View That A Culture Is Given Breadth And Density.

Once Form Has Been Smashed, It Has Been Smashed For Good, And Once A Forbidden Subject Has Been Released, It Has Been Released For Good.