Every Poem Is A Momentary Stay Against

I Own I Never Really Warmed To The Reformer Or Reformed. And Yet Conversion Has Its Place Not Halfway Down The Scale Of Grace.

The Way A Crow Shook Down On Me The Dust Of Snow From A Hemlock Tree Has Given My Heart A Change Of Mood And Saved Some Part Of A Day I Had Rued.

Modern Poets Talk Against Business, Poor Things, But All Of Us Write For Money. Beginners Are Subjected To Trial By Market.

Sentences Are Not Different Enough To Hold The Attention Unless They Are Dramatic. No Ingenuity Of Varying Structure Will Do. All That Can Save Them Is The Speaking Tone Of Voice Somehow Entangled In The Words And Fastened To The Page For The Ear Of The Imagination. That Is All That Can Save Poetry From Sing-song, All That Can Save Prose From Itself.

It's Hard To Get Into This World And Hard To Get Out Of It, And What's In Between Doesn't Make Much Sense.