Men Of Ideas Vanish When Freedom Vanishes.

My First Stringed Instrument Was A Cigar Box Banjo Where I Cut And Turned The Pegs And Strung The Wires Myself.

Poetry Is The Synthesis Of Hyacinths And Biscuits.

The Buffaloes Are Gone. And Those Who Saw The Buffaloes Are Gone.

It Is The Business Of Little Minds To Shrink.

Under The Summer Roses When The Flagrant Crimson Lurks In The Dusk Of The Wild Red Leaves, Love, With Little Hands, Comes And Touches You With A Thousand Memories, And Asks You Beautiful, Unanswerable Questions.