I see America, not in the setting sun of a black night of despair ahead of us, I see America in the crimson light of a rising sun fresh from the burning, creative hand of God. I see great days ahead, great days possible to men and women of will and vision.

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

We live in the time of the colossal upright oblong.

Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.

To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damned hard.

Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.

And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.