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

A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.

I have written some poetry that I don't understand myself.

There have been as many varieties of socialists as there are wild birds that fly in the woods and sometimes go up and on through the clouds.

The drum in a dream pounds loud to the dreamer.

My room for books and study or for sitting and thinking about nothing in particular to see what would happen was at the end of a hall.

I see America, not in the setting sun of a black night of despair ahead of us, I see America in the crimson light of a rising sun fresh from the burning, creative hand of God. I see great days ahead, great days possible to men and women of will and vision.