Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.
There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.
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.
Time is the coin of our live. We must take care how we spend it.
I took to wearing a black tie known as the Ascot, with long drooping ends. I had seen pictures of painters, sculptors, poets, wearing this style of tie.