Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.

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

Lips half-willing in a doorway. Lips half-singing at a window. Eyes half-dreaming in the walls. Feet half-dancing in a kitchen. Even the clocks half-yawn the hours And the farmers make half-answers.

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.

I won't take my religion from any man who never works except with his mouth.

Poetry is the establishment of a metaphorical link between white butterfly-wings and the scraps of torn-up love-letters.

What if they gave a war and nobody came?