“Death is the mother of Beauty hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.”
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Everything is complicated if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.
I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections, Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling, Or just after.
Most people read poetry listening for echoes because the echoes are familiar to them. They wade through it the way a boy wades through water, feeling with his toes for the bottom: The echoes are the bottom.
