Lovers, forget your love And list to the love of these. She a window flower. And he a winter breeze.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart.

It is the same life that emerges in joy through the dust of the earth into numberless waves of flower.

It is absurd to think that the only way to tell if a poem is lasting is to wait and see if it lasts. The right reader of a good poem can tell the moment it strikes him that he has taken an immortal wound-that he will never get over it.

A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.

Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.