It seems just possible that a poem might happen to a very young man: but a poem is not poetry -That is a life.

Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things (Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?) Why should I mourn The vanished power of the usual reign?

Thus with most careful devotion Thus with precise attention To detail, interfering preparation Of that which is already prepared Men lighten the knot of confusion Into perfect misunderstanding, Reflecting a pocket-torch of observation ...

Men tighten the knot of confusion Into perfect misunderstanding.

The lot of man is ceaseless labor, Or ceaseless idleness, which is still harder.

Maturing as a poet means maturing as the whole man, experiencing new emotions appropriate to one's age, and with the same intensity as the emotions of youth.

and now you live dispersed on ribbon roads, And no man knows or cares who is his neighbor Unless his neighbor makes too much disturbance, But all dash to and fro in motor cars, Familiar with the roads and settled nowhere.

The soul of Man must quicken to creation.

We can say of Shakespeare, that never has a man turned so little knowledge to such great account.