The poem . . . is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful. And in the end, the poem is not a thing we see-it is, rather, a light by which we may see-and what we see is life.
The poem is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful.
For what is a poem but a hazardous attempt at self-understanding: it is the deepest part of autobiography.
The poem is not a thing we see; it is, rather, a light by which we may see.
The poet is in the end probably more afraid of the dogmatist who wants to extract the message from the poem and throw the poem away than he is of the sentimentalist who says, Oh, just let me enjoy the poem.
How do poems grow? They grow out of your life.
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