Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work. I am the grass. I cover all.
Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?
Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.
Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
Man is a long time coming. Man will yet win. Brother may yet line up with brother: This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.There are men who can't be bought.