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

Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.

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

May is much sunshine through small leaves.

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.

I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.

To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.