For Dear Me, Why Abandon A Belief

I Was Under Twenty When I Deliberately Put It To Myself One Night After Good Conversation That There Are Moments When We Actually Touch In Talk What The Best Writing Can Only Come Near. The Curse Of Our Book Language Is Not So Much That It Keeps Forever To The Same Set Phrases . . . But That It Sounds Forever With The Same Reading Tones. We Must Go Out Into The Vernacular For Tones That Haven't Been Brought To Book.

Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know. His House Is In The Village Though; He Will Not See Me Stopping Here To Watch His Woods Fill Up With Snow.

Keats Mourned That The Rainbow, Which As A Boy Had Been For Him A Magic Thing, Had Lost Its Glory Because The Physicists Had Found It Resulted Merely From The Refraction Of The Sunlight By The Raindrops. Yet Knowledge Of Its Causation Could Not Spoil The Rainbow For Me. I Am Sure That It Is Not Given To Man To Be Omniscient. There Will Always Be Something Left To Know, Something To Excite The Imagination Of The Poet And Those Attuned To The Great World In Which They Live (p. 64)

Nature Does Not Complete Things. She Is Chaotic. Man Must Finish, And He Does So By Making A Garden And Building A Wall.

Poetry Is A Way Of Taking Life By The Throat.