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

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

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.

This is war: Boys flung into a breach Like shoveled earth; And old men, Broken, Driving rapidly before crowds of people In a glitter of silly decorations. Behind the boys And the old men, Life weeps, And shreds her garments To the blowing winds.

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

Happiness, to some, is elation; to others it is mere stagnation.

May is much sunshine through small leaves.