My Prose Is Turgid, It Just Hasn't

She Stood Upon A Continent Of Ice, Which Sparkled Between Sea And Sky, Endless And Dazzling, As Though The World Kept All Its Treasure There; A Scale Which Balanced Poetry And Prayer.

Time Hates Love, Wants Love Poor,/but Love Spins Gold, Gold, Gold From Straw.

I Think All Poets Must Feel This: That There Is Constantly Something New To Be Discovered In The Language. It's Like A Thrilling Encounter, And You Can Find Things.

The Moment Of Inspiration Can Come From Memory, Or Language, Or The Imagination, Or Experience - Anything That Makes An Impression Forcibly Enough For Language To Form.

Where I Lived - Winter And Hard Earth.i Sat In My Cold Stone Roomchoosing Tough Words, Granite, Flint,to Break The Ice. My Broken Heart -i Tried That, But It Skimmed,flat, Over The Frozen Lake.she Came From A Long, Long Way,but I Saw Her At Last, Walking,my Daughter, My Girl, Across The Fields,in Bare Feet, Bringing All Spring's Flowersto Her Mother's House. I Swearthe Air Softened And Warmed As She Moved,the Blue Sky Smiling, None Too Soon,with The Small Shy Mouth Of A New Moon.