I Think That I Shall

There Is No Peace To Be Taken With Poets Who Are Young, For They Worry About The Wars To Be Fought And The Songs That Must Be Sung.

It Is Stern Work, It Is Perilous Work, To Thrust Your Hand In The Sun And Pull Out A Spark Of Immortal Flame To Warm The Hearts Of Men: But Prometheus, Torn By The Claws And Beaks Whose Task Is Never Done, Would Be Tortured Another Eternity To Go Stealing Fire Again.

For Nothing Keeps A Poet In His High Singing Mood Like Unappeasable Hunger For Unattainable Food.

I Think That I Shall Never See A Poem Lovely As A Tree.

There Is No Place In Which To Hide When Age Comes Seeking For His Bride.