Any Memory For The Most Part Depending

The Trees Are Coming Into Leaf Like Something Almost Being Said.

And Immediately Rather Than Words Comes The Thought Of High Windows: The Sun-comprehending Glass, And Beyond It, The Deep Blue Air, That Shows Nothing, And Is Nowhere, And Is Endless.

I Think A Young Poet, Or An Old Poet, For That Matter, Should Try To Produce Something That Pleases Himself Personally, Not Only When He's Written It But A Couple Of Weeks Later. Then He Should See If It Pleases Anyone Else, By Sending It To The Kind Of Magazine He Likes Reading.

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live.

Everyone Should Be Forcibly Transplanted To Another Continent From Their Family At The Age Of Three.