The truth is that there comes a time When we can mourn no more over music That is so much motionless sound
Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.
THE POEMS OF OUR CLIMATEIClear water in a brilliant bowl, Pink and white carnations. The lightIn the room more like a snowy air, Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snowAt the end of winter when afternoon...
If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.
The Poem That Took The Place Of A MountainThere it was, word for word, The poem that took the place of a mountain. He breathed its oxygen, Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table. It re...
A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.