And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

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

I have become infected, now that I see how beautifully a book is coming out of all this.

Our lives are like a candle in the wind.

Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.

Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.