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

Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.

History is a living horse laughing at a wooden horse. History is a wind blowing where it listeth. History is no sure thing to bet on. History is a box of tricks with a lost key. History is a labyrinth of doors with sliding panels, a book of ciphers with the code in a cave of the Saragossa sea. History says, if it pleases, Excuse me, I beg your pardon, it will never happen again if I can help it.

Two bubbles found they had rainbows on their curves. They flickered out saying: "It was worth being a bubble, just to have held that rainbow thirty seconds.

Rest is not a word of free people. Rest is a monarchical word.

Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.

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