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.

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

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

The past is a bucket of ashes

Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts.

To those who had ordered them to death, one of them said: “We die because the people are asleep and you will die because the people will awaken.”

There are some people who can receive a truth by no other way than to have their understanding shocked and insulted.