Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.
We love, you know, children love the ingredients of poetry. And then they go into this tunnel that we call adolescence, and when they come out of it, they hate poetry.
Hating the Yankees is as American as pizza pie, unwed mothers, and cheating on your income tax.
Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.