I Hope That One Or

O God, In The Dream The Terrible Horse Began To Paw At The Air, And Make For Me With His Blows.

The Poem Is Always The Last Resort. In It The Poet Makes A World In Little, And Finds Peace, Even Though, Under Complete Focused Emotion, The Evocation Be Far More Bitter Than Reality, Or Far More Lovely.

Because Language Is The Carrier Of Ideas, It Is Easy To Believe That It Should Be Very Little Else Than Such A Carrier.

But Childhood Prolonged, Cannot Remain A Fairyland. It Becomes A Hell.

Poetry Is Often Generations In Advance Of The Thought Of Its Time.