We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn.

Most Poetry Is Very Formal, But When A Modern Poet Is Formal He Gets More Attention For It Than Old Poets Did.

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

Those Blessed Structures, Plot And Rhyme-- Why Are They No Help To Me Now I Want To Make Something Imagined, Not Recalled?

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone