Tell no man anything, for no man listens Yet hold thy lips ready to speak.

Time is the coin of our live. We must take care how we spend it.

History is a living horse laughing at a wooden horse. History is a wind blowing where it listeth. History is no sure thing to bet on. History is a box of tricks with a lost key. History is a labyrinth of doors with sliding panels, a book of ciphers with the code in a cave of the Saragossa sea. History says, if it pleases, Excuse me, I beg your pardon, it will never happen again if I can help it.

I decided I would go to Chicago and try my luck as a writer after those eight months as a fireman.

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.

My first stringed instrument was a cigar box banjo where I cut and turned the pegs and strung the wires myself.

Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it.