Poetry is an art practiced with the terribly plastic material of human language.

Never will a time come when the most marvelous recent invention is as marvelous as a newborn child.

Ordering a man to write a poem is like commanding a pregnant woman to give birth to a red-headed child.

Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.

For we know when a nation goes down and never comes back, when a society or a civilization perishes, one condition may always be found. They forgot where they came from. They lost sight of what brought them along.

Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.

The fog comes on little cat feet.