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.
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.
I have felt darkness lead me by the hand
Over the hill to greet the singing dawn....
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 poet is he who fights on the passionate
Side and whoever loses he wins; when he
Is defeated it is hard to say who wins....
Now remember courage, go to the door,Open it and see whether coiled on the bedOr cringing by the wall, a savage beastMaybe with golden hair, with deep eyesLike a bearded spider on a sunlit floorWill snarl-and man can never be alone.
But we shall not know the world by looking at it; we know it by looking at the hovering fly.
What was I saying? An Egyptian king
Once touched long fingers, which are not anything.
The Spring I seek is in a new face only.
The only real evidence that any critic may bring before his gaze is the finished poem.
There is probably nothing wrong with art for art's sake if we take the phrase seriously, and not take it to mean the kind of poetry written in England forty years ago.
Let us begin to understand the argument.
There is a solution to everything: Science.
For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain....
William Blake cursed the flesh for a clod,
Yet of some of his sayings we Moderns have heard tell:
'The nakedness of woman is the work of God',
Or that title--The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.
The torrent of the reaching shade
Broke shadow into all its parts,
What then had been of shadow made
Found exigence in fits and starts....
Dark accurate plunger down the successive knell
Of arch on arch, where ogives burst a red
Reverberance of hail upon the dead
Thunder like an exploding crucible!
The idiot greens the meadow with his eyes,
The meadow creeps implacable and still;
A dog barks, the hammock swings, he lies.
One two three the cows bulge on the hill.
The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
And I have seen long fingers that would stare
With fiery eyes, and then the eyes would crawl
Deftly across the counterpane and fall
Soundless, with a wink of mild despair.
Punctilious abyss, the yawn of space
Come once a day to suffocate the sight.
There's precious little to say between day and dark,
Perhaps a few words on the implacable will
Of time sailing like a magic barque
Or something as fine for the amenities....
Antiquity breached mortality with myths.
Narcissus is vocabulary. Hermes decorates
A cornice on the Third National Bank.
We know the particular poem, not what it says that we can restate.
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