Let the gentle bush dig its root deep and spread upward to split the boulder.

What if someone gave a war & Nobody came? / Life would ring the bells of Ecstasy and Forever be Itself again.

There is a music for lonely hearts nearly always. If the music dies down there is a silence. Almost the same as the movement of music. To know silence perfectly is to know music.

My room for books and study or for sitting and thinking about nothing in particular to see what would happen was at the end of a hall.

To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damned hard.

A liar goes in fine clothes, a liar goes in rags, a liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.

Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.