“Understanding myself should not be confused with changing myself”

“The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.”

“It seems an odd idea to my students that poetry, like all art, leads us away from itself, back to the world in which we live. It furnishes the vision. It shows with intense clarity what is already there.”

“Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,Said then the lost Archangel, this the seatThat we must change for heav'n, this mournful gloomFor that celestial light? Be it so since he Who now is sovereign can dispose and bid What shall be right. Farthest from him is best Whom reason hath equaled force hath made supreme Above his equals. Farewell happy fieldsWhere joy forever dwells. Hail horrors HailInfernal world, and thou profoundest hellReceive thy new possessor, one who bringsA mind not to be changed by place or timeThe mind is its own place and in itselfCan make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.What matter where if I be still the sameAnd what I should be--All but less than heWhom thunder hath made greater. Here at leastWe shall be free. Th' Almighty hath not builtHere for his envy will not drive us hence.Here we may reign supreme, and in my choiceTo reign is worth ambition, though in hell.Better to reign in hell than serve in Heav'n.But wherefore let we then our faithful friends,Th'associates and co-partners of our lossLie thus astonished on th' oblivious pool.And call them not to share with us their partIn this unhappy mansion? Or, once more,With rallying arms, to try what may be yetRegained in heav'n or what more lost in hell!”

“Me miserable! Which way shall I flyInfinite wrath and infinite despair?Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;And in the lowest deep a lower deep,Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.”

“Oh, I thought you were trying to build a canal. If it's jobs you want, then you should give these workers spoons, not shovels. [Reply to the government bureaucrat of one Asian country who told him that, reason why there were workers with shovels instead of modern tractors and earth movers at a worksite of a new canal, was that: "You don't understand. This is a jobs program."]”

“Preaching the gospel to myself each day mounts a powerful assault against my pride and serves to establish humility in its place. Nothing suffocates my pride more than daily reminders regarding the glory of my God, the gravity of my sins, and the crucifixion of God’s own Son in my place. Also, the gracious love of God, lavished on me because of Christ’s death, is always humbling to remember, especially when viewed against the backdrop of the Hell I deserve.”