I Have Never Started A Poem Yet

The Best Way To Hate Is The Worst. 'tis To Find What The Hated Need, Never Mind Of What Actual Worth, And Wipe That Out Of The Earth. Let Them Die Of Unsatisfied Greed.

The Trees That Have It In Their Pent-up Buds To Darken Nature And Be Summer Woods.

I Hold It To Be The Inalienable Right Of Anybody To Go To Hell In His Own Way.

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting. . . . Read It A Hundred Times; It Will Forever Keep Its Freshness As A Metal Keeps Its Fragrance. It Can Never Lose Its Sense Of A Meaning That Once Unfolded By Surprise As It Went.

An Idea Is A Feat Of Association.