Far Off In The Red Mangroves An

One Thing I Do Know Is That Poetry, To Be Understood, Must Be Clear.

Maybe The World, Without Us, Is The Real Poem.

Along With The Differences That Abide In Each Of Us, There Is Also In Each Of Us A Maverick, The Darling Stubborn One Who Won't Listen, Who Insists, Who Chooses Preference Or The Spirited Guess Over Yardsticks Or Even History. I Suspect This Maverick Is Somewhat What The Soul Is, Or At Least That The Soul Lives Close By And Companionably With Its Agitating And Inquiring Force.

You Only Have To Let The Soft Animal Of Your Body Love What It Loves.

Children Play Earnestly As If It Were Work. But People Grow Up, And They Work With A Sorrow Upon Them. It's Duty.