Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.

A professor is one who talks in someone else's sleep

There are good books which are only for adults.
There are no good books which are only for children.

Thoughts on his own death, like the distant roll of thunder at a picnic.

What can be explained is not poetry.

Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.