Poets yearn, of course, to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind.
All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.
After every war someone has to tidy up.
All is mine but nothing owned, nothing owned for memory, and mine only while I look.
Take it not amiss, O speech, that I borrow weighty words, and later try hard to make them seem light.
This terrifying world is not devoid of charms, of the mornings that make waking up worthwhile.
Though I may deny poets their monopoly on inspiration, I still place them in a select group of Fortune's darlings.
You can find the entire cosmos lurking in its least remarkable objects.
Somewhere out there the world must have an end.
In every tragedy, an element of comedy is preserved. Comedy is just tragedy reversed.