No God Save Self, That Is The

The Days, The Nights, Flow One By One Above Us. The Hours Go Silently Over Our Lifted Faces. We Are Like Dreamers Who Walk Beneath A Sea. Beneath High Walls We Flow In The Sun Together. We Sleep, We Wake, We Laugh, We Pursue, We Flee.

I Began By Doing Book Reviews On The Typewriter And Then Went Over To Short Stories On The Machine, Meanwhile Sticking To Pencil For Poetry.

No God Save Self, That Is The Way To Live.

I Think We've Come To A Kind Of Splinter Period In Poetry. These Tiny Little Bright Fragments Of Observation - And Not Produced Under Sufficient Pressure - Some Of It's Very Skillful, But I Don't Think There's Anywhere A Discernible Major Poet In The Process Of Emerging; Or If He Is, I Ain't Seen Him.

I'm Not In The Least Southern; I'm Entirely New England.