A Moment's Thought Is Passion's Passing Knell.

Talking Of Pleasure, This Moment I Was Writing With One Hand, And With The Other Holding To My Mouth A Nectarine - How Good How Fine. It Went Down All Pulpy, Slushy, Oozy, All Its Delicious Embonpoint Melted Down My Throat Like A Large, Beatified Strawberry.

There Is A Budding Tomorrow In Midnight.

Call The World If You Please "the Vale Of Soul-making." Then You Will Find Out The Use Of The World.

All Writing Is A Form Of Prayer.

Sweet Are The Pleasures That To Verse Belong, And Doubly Sweet A Brotherhood In Song.