I Never Deny Poems When They Come;

How Much More Beautiful Is The Moon, Slanting Down The Gauffered Branches Of A Plum-tree; The Moon Wavering Across A Bed Of Tulips; The Moon, Still, Upon Your Face. You Shine, Beloved, You And The Moon. But Which Is The Reflection?

Art Is Like Politics. Any Theory Carried Too Far Ends In Sterility, And Freshness Is Only Gained By Following Some Other Line.

All Books Are Either Dreams Or Swords, You Can Cut, Or You Can Drug, With Words.

Hate Is Ravening Vulture Beaks Descending On A Place Of Skulls.

Poets Are Always The Advance Guard Of Literature; The Advance Guard Of Life. It Is For This Reason That Their Recognition Comes So Slowly.