Poetry is a kinetic arrangement of static syllables.

I am! I have come through! I belong!

Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.

Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.

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

Always the path of American destiny has been into the unknown. Always there arose enough reserves of strength, balances of sanity, portions of wisdom to carry the nation through to a fresh start with ever-renewing vitality.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the women don't get you then the whiskey must.