I think of those who were truly great. The names of those who in their lives fought for life, Who wore at their hearts the fire's center.

I'm struggling at the end to get out of the valley of hectoring youth, journalistic middle age, imposture, moneymaking, public relations, bad writing, mental confusion.

When a child, my dreams rode on your wishes, I was your son, high on your horse, My mind a top whipped by the lashes Of your rhetoric, windy of course.

History is the ship carrying living memories to the future.

Great poetry is always written by somebody straining to go beyond what he can do.

There is a certain justice in criticism. The critic is like a midwife - a tyrannical midwife.