In the night the cabbages catch at the moon, the leaves drip silver, the rows of cabbages are a series of little silver waterfalls in the moon.

Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path, matched up with foam-flanked horses, bloody knuckles, and bones, on the hard ways to the stars.

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.”

I couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.

Let your heart look on white sea spray and be lonely. Love is a fool star. You and a ring of stars may mention my name and then forget me. Love is a fool star.

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.

You remember some bedrooms you have slept in. There are bedrooms you like to remember and others you would like to forget.