The mountain pushed us off her knees. And now her lap is full of trees.
For I thought Epicurus and Lucretius By Nature meant the Whole Goddam Machinery.
A poem ... begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.... It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.
Before now poetry has taken notice Of wars, and what are wars but politics Transformed from chronic to acute and bloody?
What an exciting age it is we live in With all this talk about the hope of youth And nothing made of youth.
Slave to a springtime passion for the earth. How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed On through the watching for that early birth When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed, The sturdy seedling with arched body comes Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.
I write real verse in numbers, as they say. I'm talking not free verse but blank verse now.
Sea waves are green and wet, But up from where they die Rise others vaster yet, And those are brown and dry.
It doesn't seem so much to climb a mountain You've worked around the foot of all your life.
And anyone is free to condemn me to death If he leaves it to nature to carry out the sentence. I shall will to the common stock of air my breath And pay a death tax of fairly polite repentance.