A poem is just a little machine for remembering itself … our memory of the poem is the poem.
The voice of a young man One sticks one's finger into the soil to tell by the smell in what…
Heredity I am the family face; Flesh perishes, I live on, Projecting trait and trace Through time to times anon,…
Reason is always a kind of brute force; those who appeal to the head rather than the heart, however pallid…