As I Have Not Worried To Be

What Shall I Say About Poetry? What Shall I Say About Those Clouds, Or About The Sky? Look; Look At Them; Look At It! And Nothing More. Don't You Understand Anything About Poetry? Leave That To The Critics And The Professors. For Neither You, Nor I, Nor Any Poet Knows What Poetry Is.

What's The Furthest Corner? Because That's Where I Want To Be, Alone With The Only Thing That I Love.

At The Heart Of All Great Art Is An Essential Melancholy.

The Mirror Is The Mother Dew, The Book Of Desiccated Twilights, Echo Become Flesh.

Green How I Love You Green. Green Wind. Green Boughs. The Ship On The Sea And The Horse On The Mountain.