I never deny poems when they come; whatever I am doing, whatever I am writing, I lay it aside and attend to the arriving poem.
All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
Even pain pricks to livelier living.
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
May is much sunshine through small leaves.