Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels. |
Say it! No ideas but in things. |
Sleep!
There is hunting in heaven -- Sleep safe till tomorrow. |
so much depends
upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens. |
Some leaves hang late, some fall
before the first frost--so goes the tale of winter branches and old bones. |
Sorrow is my own yard
where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year. |
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than I am, by what devious means do you contrive to remain idle? Teach me, O master. |
The better work men do is always done under stress and at great personal cost. |
The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together. |
The elm is scattering its little loaves of sweet smells from a white sky! |
The only human value of anything, writing included, is intense vision of the facts. |
The poem, to me (until I go broke) is an attempt, an experiment, a failing experiment, toward assertion with broken means but an assertion, always, of a new and total culture, the lifting of an environment to expression. Thus it is social, the poem is a social instrument. |
The pure products of America go crazy. |
There is neither beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will. |
There is something something urgent I have to say to you and you alone but it must wait while I drink in the joy of your approach, perhaps for the last time. |