The Women Rest Their Tired Half-healed Hearts;

It Is Not Possible, For A Poet, Writing In Any Language, To Protect Himself From The Tragic Elements In Human Life.... [ellipsis In Source] Illness, Old Age, And Death--subjects As Ancient As Humanity--these Are The Subjects That The Poet Must Speak Of Very Nearly From The First Moment That He Begins To Speak.

No More Pronouncements On Lousy Verse. No More Hidden Competition. No More Struggling Not To Be A Square.

The Initial Mystery That Attends Any Journey Is: How Did The Traveler Reach His Starting Point In The First Place?

True Revolutions In Art Restore More Than They Destroy.

But It's Silly To Suggest The Writing Of Poetry Is Something Ethereal, A Sort Of Soul-crashing, Devastating Emotional Experience That Wrings You. I Have No Fancy Ideas About Poetry. ... It Doesn't Come To You On The Wings Of A Dove. It's Something You Have To Work Hard At.