Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart; The end lost in dream, They float past our view, We only watch their glad, early start. Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, Their distant employ, We never shall know. And the stream as it flows Sweeps them away, Each one is gone Ever beyond into infinite ways. We alone stay While years hurry on, The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

Youth condemns; maturity condones

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

A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.

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.