Now the peak of summer's past, the sky is overcast / And the love we swore would last for an age seems deceit.
No good poem, however confessional it may be, is just a self-expression. Who on earth would claim that the pearl expresses the oyster?
I sang as one / Who on a tilting deck sings / To keep men's courage up, though the wave hangs / That shall cut off their sun.
It is the logic of our times,<br/>No subject for immortal verse-<br/>That we who lived by honest dreams<br/>Defend the bad against the worse.
Suppose that we, to-morrow or the next day, / Came to an end - in storm the shafting broken, / Or a mistaken signal, the flange lifting - / Would that be premature, a text for sorrow?
We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand.
Summer has filled her veins with light and her heart is washed with noon.
First, I do not sit down at my desk to put into verse something that is already clear in my mind. If it were clear in my mind, I should have no incentive or need to write about it.