I'll die propped up in bed trying to do a poem about America.

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

Whenever a people or an institution forget its hard beginnings, it is beginning to decay.

Give me hunger, pain and want, Shut me out with shame and failure From your doors of gold and fame, Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger! But leave me a little love.

We live in the time of the colossal upright oblong.

We read Robert Browning's poetry. Here we needed no guidance from the professor: the poems themselves were enough.

Poetry is the establishment of a metaphorical link between white butterfly-wings and the scraps of torn-up love-letters.