Every poet has his dream reader: mine keeps a look out for curious prosodic fauna like bacchics and choriambs.

We say God and the imagination are one . . .How high that highest candle lights the dark.

In Europe life retreats out of the cold, and exquisite fireside myths have resulted—Balder, Persephone—but [in India] the retreat is from the source of life, the treacherous sun, and no poetry adorns it because disillusionment...

Rhythm must have meaning.

I suppose I’m saying that defiance is actually part of the lyric job