The drum in a dream pounds loud to the dreamer.

Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.

What if they gave a war and nobody came?

Look out how you use proud words. When you let proud words go, it is not easy to call them back. They wear long boots, hard boots; they walk off proud; they can't hear you calling. Look out how you use proud words.

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.

The fog comes on little cat feet.

Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.