What else have I done nearly all my life than go hungry and go on singing?

There is a warning love sends and the cost of it is never written till long afterward.

The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.

A liar goes in fine clothes, a liar goes in rags, a liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.

What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.

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.

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