As You Are Woman, So Be Lovely:

Poetry Began In The Matriarchal Age, And Derives Its Magic From The Moon, Not From The Sun. No Poet Can Hope To Understand The Nature Of Poetry Unless He Has Had A Vision Of The Naked King Crucified To The Lopped Oak, And Watched The Dancers, Red-eyed From The Acrid Smoke Of The Sacrificial Fires, Stamping Out The Measure Of The Dance, Their Bodies Bent Uncouthly Forward, With A Monotonous Chant Of "kill! Kill! Kill!" And "blood! Blood! Blood!

But Give Thanks, At Least, That You Still Have Frost's Poems; And When You Feel The Need Of Solitude, Retreat To The Companionship Of Moon, Water, Hills And Trees. Retreat, He Reminds Us, Should Not Be Confused With Escape. And Take These Poems Along For Good Luck!

Poet, Never Chase The Dream. Laugh Yourself And Turn Away. Mask Your Hunger, Let It Seem Small Matter If He Come Or Stay; But When He Nestles In Your Hand At Last, Close Up Your Fingers Tight And Hold Him Fast.

I Was Last In Rome In Ad 540 When It Was Full Of Goths And Their Heavy Horses. It Has Changed A Great Deal Since Then.

A Banker Warned The British Poet Robert Graves That One Could Not Grow Rich Writing Poetry. He Replied That If There Was No Money In Poetry, There Was Certainly No Poetry In Money, And So It Was All Even.