Even pain pricks to livelier living.

This is America, This vast, confused beauty, This staring, restless speed of loveliness, Mighty, overwhelming, crude, of all forms, Making grandeur out of profusion, Afraid of no incongruities, Sublime in its audacity, Bizarre breaker of moulds.

Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?

Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature; it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented.

Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.

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?

Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.