Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.

In the night the cabbages catch at the moon, the leaves drip silver, the rows of cabbages are a series of little silver waterfalls in the moon.

Now I am here - now read me - give me a name.

And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.

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.

I glory in this world of men and women, torn with troubles, yet living on to love and laugh through it all.

Such a Big miracle in such a tiny baby. Big things often have small beginnings A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.