To Make An End Is To Make

So First, Your Memory I'll Jog, And Say: A Cat Is Not A Dog

The Poet's Mind Is In Fact A Receptacle For Seizing And Storing Up Numberless Feelings, Phrases, Images, Which Remain There Until All The Particles Which Can Unite To Form A New Compound Are Present Together.

All Time Is Eternal, Moving Inexorably Toward An End Which We Believe Is A Result Of Our Actions, But Over Which Our Control Is Mere Illusion.

Poets In Our Civilization, As It Exists At Present, Must Be Difficult...the Poet Must Become More And More Comprehensive, More Allusive, More Indirect, In Order To Force, To Dislocate If Necessary, Language Into Its Meaning.

The Soul Of Man Must Quicken To Creation.