Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it.

I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.

I fell in love, not deep, but I fell several times and then fell out.

Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.

Hog butcher for the world, Tool maker, stacker of wheat, Player with railroads and the nation's freight handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of big shoulders.

Let the gentle bush dig its root deep and spread upward to split the boulder.

Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.