The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.
Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
Give me hunger, pain and want, Shut me out with shame and failure From your doors of gold and fame, Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger! But leave me a little love.
Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts.
There is a warning love sends and the cost of it is never written till long afterward.
If I added to their pride of America, I am happy.