I Hope That One Or Two Immortal

O God, In The Dream The Terrible Horse Began To Paw At The Air, And Make For Me With His Blows.

What We Suffer, What We Endure, What We Muff, What We Kill, What We Miss, What We Are Guilty Of, Is Done By Us, As Individuals, In Private.

The Women Rest Their Tired Half-healed Hearts; They Are Almost Well.

Poetry Is Often Generations In Advance Of The Thought Of Its Time.

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.