The Only Reason A Road Is Good

For Nothing Keeps A Poet In His High Singing Mood Like Unappeasable Hunger For Unattainable Food.

It Is Stern Work, It Is Perilous Work, To Thrust Your Hand In The Sun And Pull Out A Spark Of Immortal Flame To Warm The Hearts Of Men: But Prometheus, Torn By The Claws And Beaks Whose Task Is Never Done, Would Be Tortured Another Eternity To Go Stealing Fire Again.

Things Have A Terrible Permanence When People Die.

The Air Is Like A Butterfly With Frail Blue Wings. The Happy Earth Looks At The Sky And Sings.

There Is No Peace To Be Taken With Poets Who Are Young, For They Worry About The Wars To Be Fought And The Songs That Must Be Sung.