Of Lovers Whose Bodies Smell Of Each

As Things Are, And As Fundamentally They Must Always Be, Poetry Is Not A Career, But A Mug's Game. No Honest Poet Can Ever Feel Quite Sure Of The Permanent Value Of What He Has Written: He May Have Wasted His Time And Messed Up His Life For Nothing.

The Past And Future / Are Conquered, And Reconciled.

Humankind Cannot Bear Very Much Reality.

The Destination Cannot Be Described; / You Will Know Very Little Until You Get There; / You Will Journey Blind.

I Don't Believe One Grows Older. I Think That What Happens Early On In Life Is That At A Certain Age One Stands Still And Stagnates.