The Universe Is A Continuous Web. Touch

A Poem Has Secrets That The Poet Knows Nothing Of.

We Have All Been Expelled From The Garden, But The Ones Who Suffer Most In Exile Are Those Who Are Still Permitted To Dream Of Perfection.

It Is My Heart That's Late, It Is My Song That's Flown.

...few Young Poets [are] Testing Their Poems Against The Ear. They're Writing For The Page, And The Page, Let Me Tell You, Is A Cold Bed.

An Old Poet Ought Never To Be Caught With His Technique Showing.