Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.

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

Poetry is a theorem of a yellow-silk handkerchief knotted with riddles, sealed in a balloon tied to the tail of a kite flying in a white wind against a blue sky in spring.

Arithmetic is where the answer is right and everything is nice and you can look out of the window and see the blue sky - or the answer is wrong and you have to start over and try again and see how it comes out this time.

The marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading "Keep Off.

What if someone gave a war & Nobody came? / Life would ring the bells of Ecstasy and Forever be Itself again.

Rest is not a word of free people. Rest is a monarchical word.