The First BookOpen it.Go ahead, it won't bite.Well. . . Maybe a little.More a nip, like. A tingle.It's pleasurable, really.You see, it keeps on opening.You may fall in.Sure, it's hard to get started;remember learning to useknife and fork? Dig in:you'll never reach bottom.It's not like it's the end of the world--just the world as you thinkyou know it.

I'd rather be not the light in your lifeThe bright day might make me obscureI'd rather be the cold darknessFor it remains, unseen, uncertain and unsure.

There's a certain slant of light,On winter afternoons,That oppresses, like the weightOf cathedral tunes.

Poetry is only the highest eloquence of passion, the most vivid form of expression that can be given to our conception of anything, whether pleasurable or painful, mean or dignified, delightful or distressing. It is the perfect coincidence of the image and the words with the feeling we have, and of which we cannot get rid in any other way, that gives an instant 'satisfaction to the thought.' This is equally the origin of wit and fancy, of comedy and tragedy, of the sublime and pathetic.

We swam deep in the waves, a wild chase ..Stained with memories and pain.Who knew a gulf would lay between?Who knew loving someone, would ache?

The poem has a social effect of some kind whether or not the poet wills it to have. It has a kenetic force, it sets in motion...Elements in the reader that would otherwise remain stagnant.

As long as there arehuman beings aboutthere is never going to beany peacefor any individualupon this earth (oranywhere elsethey mightescape to).All you can dois maybe grabten lucky minuteshereor maybe an hourthere.Somethingis working toward youright now, andI mean youand nobody butyou.

Always dip your toe in the past before stepping into the future.

What a strange world. We trade our days for things.

There is no greater crime against humanity than usury.