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.

Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.

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

How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.

Everything mortal has moments immortal

Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.