You Don't Remember Days, You

I Thought Of How Many Places There Are In The World That Belong In This Way To Someone, Who Has It In His Blood Beyond Anyone Else's Understanding.

The Man Who Cannot Live With Charity, Sharing Other Men's Pain, Is Punished By Feeling His Own With Intolerable Anguish.

Remember, Writing Poetry Is Like Making Love: One Will Never Know Whether One's Own Pleasure Is Shared.

We Like To Have Work To Do, So As To Have The Right To Rest.

There Comes A Day When, For Someone Who Has Persecuted Us, We Feel Only Indifference, A Weariness At His Stupidity. Then We Forgive Him.