When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.

Corn wind in the fall, come off the black lands, come off the whisper of the silk hangers, the lap of the flat spear leaves.

What if someone gave a war & Nobody came? / Life would ring the bells of Ecstasy and Forever be Itself again.

Poetry is a puppet-show, where riders of skyrockets and divers of sea fathoms gossip about the sixth sense and the fourth dimension.

The past is a bucket of ashes

I stayed away from mathematics not so much because I knew it would be hard work as because of the amount of time I knew it would take, hours spent in a field where I was not a natural.

Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.