Valor is a gift. Those having it never know for sure whether they have it until the test comes.

I have written some poetry that I don't understand myself.

The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.

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.

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work. I am the grass. I cover all.

I have often wondered what it is an old building can do to you when you happen to know a little about things that went on long ago in that building.

Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.