Novels Seem To Me To Be Richer,

A Good Meal Can Somewhat Repair / The Eatings Of Slight Love

One Of The Great Criticisms Of Poets Of The Past Is That They Said One Thing And Did Another.

I Work All Day, And Get Half-drunk At Night.

Spring, Of All Seasons Most Gratuitous, Is Fold Of Untaught Flower, Is Race Of Water, Is Earth's Most Multiple, Excited Daughter; And Those She Has Least Use For See Her Best, Their Paths Grown Craven And Circuitous, Their Visions Mountain-clear, Their Needs Immodest.

I Can't Understand These Chaps Who Go Round American Universities Explaining How They Write Poems: It's Like Going Round Explaining How You Sleep With Your Wife.