In The Kingdom Of Bang And Blab.

You Must Believe A Poem Is A Holy Thing, A Good Poem, That Is.

Over Every Mountain There Is A Path, Although It May Not Be Seen From The Valley.

I Can't Go On Flying Apart Just For Those Who Want The Benefit Of A Few Verbal Kicks. My God, Do You Know What Poems Like That Cost? They're Not Written Vicariously: They Come Out Of Actual Suffering, Real Madness.

Fear Was My Father, Father Fear. His Look Drained The Stones.

The Fields Stretch Out In Long Unbroken Rows. We Walk Aware Of What Is Far And Close. Here Distance Is Familiar As A Friend. The Feud We Kept With Space Comes To An End.