I Have Wished You Something None Of

I Think That At The Bottom Of All Art Lies The Impulse To Preserve.

To Put One Brick Upon Another, Add A Third, And Then A Fourth, Leaves No Time To Wonder Whether What You Do Has Any Worth.

I Am Not Sure, Once A Poet Has Found Out What Has Been Written Already, And How It Was Written - Once, In Short, He Has Learnt His Trade - That He Should Bother With Literature At All. Poetry Is Not Like Surgery, A Technique That Can Be Copied. Every Operation The Poet Performs Is Unique, And Need Never Be Done Again.

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live. They Come, They Wake Us Time And Time Over. Theyare To Be Happy In: Where Can We Live But Days?

Uncontradicting Solitude Supports Me On Its Giant Palm; And Like A Sea-anemone Or Simple Snail, There Cautiously Unfolds, Emerges, What I Am.