What Are Days For? Days Are Where

Never Such Innocence, Never Before Or Since, As Changed Itself To Past Without A Word--the Men Leaving The Gardens Tidy, The Thousands Of Marriages Lasting A Little While Longer: Never Such Innocence Again.

... Everyone Young Going Down The Long Slide To Happiness, Endlessly.

One Of The Great Criticisms Of Poets Of The Past Is That They Said One Thing And Did Another.

Novels Seem To Me To Be Richer, Broader, Deeper, More Enjoyable Than Poems.

Now, Helpless In The Hollow Of An Unarmorial Age, A Trough Of Smoke In Slow Suspended Skeins Above Their Scrap Of History, Only An Attitude Remains: Time Has Transfigured Them Into Untruth. The Stone Finality They Hardly Meant Has Come To Be Their Final Blazon, And To Prove Our Almost-instinct Almost True: What Will Survive Of Us Is Love.