Men expect too much, do too little.
Poets are mysterious, but a poet when all is said is not much more mysterious than a banker.
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.
The mission for the day is to encourage students to think beyond traditional career opportunities, prepare for future careers and entrance into the workplace.
The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!
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.
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 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.
Religion is the sole technique for the validating of values.
In a manner of speaking, the poem is its own knower, neither poet nor reader knowing anything that the poem says apart from the words of the poem.
But in our age the appeal to authority is weak, and I am of my age.
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.
Experience means conflict, our natures being what they are, and conflict means drama.
Culture is the study of perfection, and the constant effort to achieve it.
A poem may be an instance of morality, of social conditions, of psychological history; it may instance all its qualities, but never one of them alone, nor any two or three; never less than all.
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?
All the sea-gods are dead.
You, Venus, come home
To your salt maidenhead....
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.
So face with calm that heritage
And earn contempt before the age.
My darling boy whom I shall never know,
My son, I love you in my deepest fears....
There is a calm for you where men and women
Unroll the chill precision of moving feet.
In the cold morning the rested street stands up
To greet the clerk who saunters down the world.
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