My Small Boat

Winter draws what summer paints.

If we are uncritical we shall always find what we want: we shall look for, and find, confirmations, and we shall look away from, and not see, whatever might be dangerous to our pet theories.

When nations grow old, the Arts grow cold,
And Commerce settles on every tree.

The voice of a young man
One sticks one’s finger into the soil to tell by the smell in what land one is: I stick my finger in existence – it smells of nothing. Where am I? Who am I? How came I here? What is this thing called the world? What does this world mean? [...]

A poem is just a little machine for remembering itself … our memory of the poem is the poem.

Heredity
I am the family face;
Flesh perishes, I live on,
Projecting trait and trace
Through time to times anon,
And leaping from place to place
Over oblivion.
The years-heired feature that can
In curve and voice and eye
Despise the human span
Ofdurance–that is I;
The eternal thing in man,
That heeds no call to die.