There have been as many varieties of socialists as there are wild birds that fly in the woods and sometimes go up and on through the clouds.

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.

Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts.

The past is a bucket of ashes

Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, 'Oh!' and another, 'How?'

In these times you have to be an optimist to open your eyes when you awake in the morning.

I never made a mistake in grammar but one in my life and as soon as I done it I seen it.