All Great Poetry Is Dipped In The

The Poet Speaks To All Men Of That Other Life Of Theirs That They Have Smothered And Forgotten.

The Great Sins And Fires Break Out Of Me Like The Terrible Leaves From The Bough In The Violent Spring. I Am A Walking Fire, I Am All Leaves.

Virginia Woolf, I Enjoyed Talking To Her, But Thought Nothing Of Her Writing. I Considered Her 'a Beautiful Little Knitter.

Our Hearts Seemed Safe In Our Breasts And Sang To The Light The Marrow In The Bone We Dreamed Was Safe. . . The Blood In The Veins, The Sap In The Tree Were Springs Of Deity.

What Is The Special Privilege Of Youth? It Is, I Think, The Power Of Looking Forward, The Firm Belief That The Future Holds Something That Is Worth Possessing, And That, Therefore, One Can Let The Present Moment Drop From One Without Regret And Without Fear.