Men expect too much, do too little.
So face with calm that heritage
And earn contempt before the age.
Poets are mysterious, but a poet when all is said is not much more mysterious than a banker.
The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
The mission for the day is to encourage students to think beyond traditional career opportunities, prepare for future careers and entrance into the workplace.
I have felt darkness lead me by the hand
Over the hill to greet the singing dawn....
But we shall not know the world by looking at it; we know it by looking at the hovering fly.
For some reason most critics have a hard time fixing their minds directly under their noses, and before they see the object that is there they use a telescope upon the horizon to see where it came from.
Serious poetry deals with the fundamental conflicts that cannot be logically resolved: we can state the conflicts rationally, but reason does not relieve us of them.
I am not ridiculing verbal mechanisms, dreams, or repressions as origins of poetry; all three of them and more besides may have a great deal to do with it.
Other psychological theories say a good deal about compensation.
Religion is the sole technique for the validating of values.
At twelve I was determined to shoot only For honor; at twenty not to shoot at all; I know at thirty-three that one must shoot As often as one gets the rare chance - In killing there is more than commentary.
According to its doctors, my one intransigent desire is to have been a Confederate general, and because I could not or would not become anything else, I set up for poet and beg an to invent fictions about the personal ambitions that my society has no use for.
I believe the term modulation denotes in music the uninterrupted shift from one key to another: I do not know the term for change of rhythm without change of measure.
The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!
But in our age the appeal to authority is weak, and I am of my age.
The day's at end and there's nowhere to go,
Draw to the fire, even this fire is dying;
Get up and once again politely lying
Invite the ladies toward the mistletoe....
All the sea-gods are dead.
You, Venus, come home
To your salt maidenhead....
If not in a place, where are the People weeping?
They creep weeping in the face, not place.
Is it something with which we may cope
The weeping, the creeping, the peepee-ing, the peeping?
So the dubbed conceit
Played nursery of cheat
To clear the I of sleet....
I had kept opaque
Down deeper than the canyons undersea
The sullen spectrum of a buried lake
Nobody saw; not seen even by me....
Last night I fled until I came
To streets where leaking casements dripped
Stale lamplight from the corpse of flame;
A nervous window bled.
Walk in this faithless grass with studious tread,
Lest mice, weasels, germane beasts, too soon
The tall hat and eyes, the fierce feet, for dead
Descry, and fix you prone in their revelling moon.
we know our end
A packet of worm-seed, a garden of spent tissues.
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