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

Calling it off comes easy enough if you haven't told the girl you are smitten with her.

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 projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.

To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damned hard.

And those who say, "I'll try anything once," often try nothing twice, three times, arriving late at the gate of dreams worth dying for.

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