Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.

If I added to their pride of America, I am happy.

We don't have to think up a title till we get the doggone book written.

I want to do the right thing, but often I don't know just what the right thing is. Every day I know I have come short of what I would like to have done. Yet as the years pass and I see the very world itself, with its oceans and mountains and plains, as something unfinished, a peculiar little satisfaction hunts out the corners of my heart. Sunsets and evening shadows find me regretful at task's undone, but sleep and the dawn and the air of the morning touch me with freshening hopes. Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.

The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.