I Desired My Dust To Be Mingled

The Eyes Of This Dead Lady Speak To Me For Here Was Love, Was Not To Be Drowned Out. And Here Desire, Not To Be Kissed Away. The Eyes Of This Dead Lady Speak To Me.

Your Mind And You Are Our Sargasso Sea.

Colloquial Poetry Is To The Real Art As The Barber's Wax Dummy Is To Sculpture.

The Only Thing One Can Give An Artist Is Leisure In Which To Work. To Give An Artist Leisure Is Actually To Take Part In His Creation.

I Would Hold The Rosy, Slender Fingers Of The Dawn For You.