I am so wise I had my mouth sewn shut.

You should always be trying to write a poem you are unable to write, a poem you lack the technique, the language, the courage to achieve. Otherwise you're merely imitating yourself, going nowhere, because that's always easiest.

These Songs are not meant to be understood, you understand.They are only meant to terrify & comfort.

I do strongly feel that among the greatest pieces of luck for high achievement is ordeal. Certain great artists can make out without it, Titian and others, but mostly you need ordeal. My idea is this: the artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him. At that point, he's in business: Beethoven's deafness, Goya's deafness, Milton's blindness, that kind of thing.

Them lady poets must not marry, pal.

Them lady poets must not marry, pal . . . It is a true error to marry with poets / or to be by them.

During those years he met his seminars,went & lectured & read, talked with human beings,paid insurance & taxes;but his mind was not on it. his mind was elsewheresin an area where the soul not talks but sings& where foes are attacked with axes.

Is stuffed, de world, wif feeding girls.

The Prayer of the Middle-Aged ManAmid the doctors in the Temple at twelve, between mother & host at Cana implored too soon, in the middle of disciples, the midst of the mob, between High-Priest and Procurator, among the occupiers,between the malefactors, and 'stetit in medio, et dixit, pax vobis' and 'ascensit ad mediam Personarum et caelorum,' dear my Lord,mercy a sinner nailed dead-centre too, pray not to late,-for also Ezra stood between the seven & the six, restoring the new Law.

I ask for a decreedooming my bitter enemies to laughteradvanced against them.

…Henry is tired of winter,& haircuts, & a squeamish comfy ruin-prone proud national mind, & Spring (in the city so called)Henry likes Fall.Hé would be prepared to líve in a world of Fállfor ever, impenitent Henry.But the snows and summers grieve and dream;These fierce & airy occupations, and love,raved away so many of Henry’s yearsit is a wonder that, with in each handone of his own mad books and all,ancient fires for eyes, his head full& his heart full, he's making ready to move on.

We must travel in the direction of our fear.