When the immense drugged universe explodesIn a cascade of unendurable colourAnd leaves us gasping naked,This is no more than the ectasy of chaos:Hold fast, with both hands, to that royal loveWhich alone, as we know certainly, restoresFragmentation into true being.Ecstasy of Chaos

There’s no money in poetry, but there’s no poetry in money, either

But give thanks, at least, that you still have Frost's poems; and when you feel the need of solitude, retreat to the companionship of moon, water, hills and trees. Retreat, he reminds us, should not be confused with escape. And take these poems along for good luck!

But that so many scholars are barbarians does not much matter so long as a few of them are ready to help with their specialized knowledge the few independent thinkers, that is to say the poets, who try to to keep civilization alive.

Since the age of fifteen poetry has been my ruling passion and I have never intentionally undertaken any task or performed any relationship that seemed inconsistent with poetic principles; which has sometimes won me the reputation of an eccentric.

Since the age of fifteen poetry has been my ruling passion and I have never intentionally undertaken any task or formed any relationship that seemed inconsistent with poetic principles; which has sometimes won me the reputation of an eccentric.

I love, therefore I am.

Black drinks the sun and draws all colours into it.I am bleached white, my truant love. Come back,and stain me with the intensity of black.

This seems to me a philosophical question, and therefore irrelevant, question. A poet's destiny is to love.