Rest is not a word of free people. Rest is a monarchical word.
Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
I'll die propped up in bed trying to do a poem about America.
Anger is the most impotent of passions. It effects nothing it goes about, and hurts the one who is possessed by it more than the one against whom it is directed.
A book is never a masterpiece: it becomes one. Genius is the talent of a dead man.
Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path, matched up with foam-flanked horses, bloody knuckles, and bones, on the hard ways to the stars.