Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.
Revolt and terror pay a price. Order and law have a cost.
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.
The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.
Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.
Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.