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.

The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.

I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.

And how should a beautiful, ignorant stream of water know it heads for an early release — out across the desert, running toward the Gulf, below sea level, to murmur its lullaby, and see the Imperial Valley rise out of burning sand with cotton blossoms, wheat, watermelons, roses, how should it know?

Calling it off comes easy enough if you haven't told the girl you are smitten with her.

Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.

Be careful with your words, once they are said, they can only be forgiven, not forgotten.