There may be a time when we'll attend Weather Theaters to recall the sensation of rain.

Poetry is what is lost in translation. It is also what is lost in interpretation.

The sweet of bitter barkAnd burning clove.

Poetry is play. I'd even rather have you think of it as a sport. For instance, like football.

She was our land more than a hundred years Before we were her people. She was ours In Massachusetts, in Virginia, But we were England's, still colonials, Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed.

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