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

How much more beautiful is the moon, Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree; The moon Wavering across a bed of tulips; The moon, Still, Upon your face. You shine, Beloved, You and the moon. But which is the reflection?

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.

Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.

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

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

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