Now I am here - now read me - give me a name.

Life is like an onion. You peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep.

Hog butcher for the world, Tool maker, stacker of wheat, Player with railroads and the nation's freight handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of big shoulders.

Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.

Calling it off comes easy enough if you haven't told the girl you are smitten with her.

A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.

Poetry is a theorem of a yellow-silk handkerchief knotted with riddles, sealed in a balloon tied to the tail of a kite flying in a white wind against a blue sky in spring.