I Know That A Creed Is The

I Do Not Suppose That Anyone Not A Poet Can Realize The Agony Of Creating A Poem. Every Nerve, Even Every Muscle, Seems Strained To The Breaking Point. The Poem Will Not Be Denied; To Refuse To Write It Would Be A Greater Torture. It Tears Its Way Out Of The Brain, Splintering And Breaking Its Passage, And Leaves That Organ In The State Of A Jelly-fish When The Task Is Done.

Happiness: We Rarely Feel It. I Would Buy It, Beg It, Steal It, Pay In Coins Of Dripping Blood For This One Transcendent Good.

How Loud Clocks Can Tick When A Room Is Empty, And One Is Alone!

Don’t Ask A Writer What He’s Working On. It’s Like Asking Someone With Cancer On The Progress Of His Disease.

I Must Be Mad, Or Very Tired, When The Curve Of A Blue Bay Beyond A Railroad Track Is Shrill And Sweet To Me Like The Sudden Springing Of A Tune, And The Sight Of A White Church Above Thin Trees In A City Square Amazes My Eyes As Though It Were The Parthenon.