We Live On The Circumference Of A

Evil I Had Never Found Satisfactorily Placeable As An Integral Element Of The Universal, Or Total, Content Of Existence. Indeed, Evil Is Evil Just Because There Is No Logical Place For It, No Room In Reality For It. It Is Unreal, And Yet Real As Something Unreal.

To A Poet The Mere Making Of A Poem Can Seem To Solve The Problem Of Truth…but Only A Problem Of Art Is Solved In Poetry.

... Whatever Is Not Happening Now Is Unimportant; It Is Merely Curious.

Truth Rings No Bells.

Poetry Is A Sleep-maker For That Which Sits Up Late In Us Listening For The Footfall Of The Future On To-day's Doorstep.