Nothing is as tedious as the limping days,
When snowdrifts yearly cover all the ways,
And ennui, sour fruit of incurious gloom,
Assumes control of fate’s immortal loom
“Right now I’ve just turned 90 so technically I can write on whatever I want. And I don’t at the moment want to go on analyzing the particulars of contemporary poetry.”
Marjorie Perloff
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