Not Until It Starts To Stink Does

I Want A Bedroom Near The Sky, An Astrologer's Cave Where I Can Fashion Eclogues That Are Chaste And Grave.

I Feel That Poetry Is Going On All The Time Inside, An Underground Stream.

And We May Be Led, Then, Upward Through More Powerful Forms Of Poetry, Past Columns With Peeling Posters On Them, To The Country Of Indifference. Meanwhile If The Swell Diapasons, Blooms Unhappily And Too Soon, The Little People Are Nonetheless Real.

I Am Often Asked Why I Write, And I Don't Know Really--i Just Want To.

Much That Is Beautiful Must Be Discarded So That We May Resemble A Taller Impression Of Ourselves.