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.
So face with calm that heritage
And earn contempt before the age.
I have felt darkness lead me by the hand
Over the hill to greet the singing dawn.
The mission for the day is to encourage students to think beyond traditional career opportunities, prepare for future careers and entrance into the workplace.
So the poet, who wants to be something that he cannot be, and is a failure in plain life, makes up fictitious versions of his predicament that are interesting even to other persons because nobody is a perfect automobile salesman.
Culture is the study of perfection, and the constant effort to achieve it.
We are afraid that we have not lived.
We are not afraid of dying.
Venus knows country matters: country knows Venus:
For Love, Dione's boy, was born on the farm.
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.
The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
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.
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.
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?
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 the dubbed conceit
Played nursery of cheat
To clear the I of sleet.
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.
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