Joy, Whose Hand Is Ever At His

Poetry Should Be Great And Unobtrusive, A Thing Which Enters Into One's Soul, And Does Not Startle It Or Amaze It With Itself, But With Its Subject.

I Would Sooner Fail Than Not Be Among The Greatest.

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.

Where Soil Is, Men Grow, Whether To Weeds Or Flowers.

Some Say The World Is A Vale Of Tears, I Say It Is A Place Of Soul-making.