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

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

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.

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.

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

I do not suppose that anyone not a poet can realize the agony of creating a poem. Every nerve, even every muscle, seems strained to the breaking point. The poem will not be denied; to refuse to write it would be a greater torture. It tears its way out of the brain, splintering and breaking its passage, and leaves that organ in the state of a jelly-fish when the task is done.

I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.