The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you, Opens a door through which you see dark dreams.

It's time to make love, douse the glim; The fireflies twinkle and dim; The stars lean together Like birds of a feather, And the loin lies down with the limb.

He whose first emotion, on the view of an excellent work, is to undervalue or depreciate it, will never have one of his own to show.

I think that what's happening today, with all the young poets rushing from one college to another, lecturing at the drop of a hat and so on, is not too good; I think it might have a bad effect on a great many of the young poets. They - to quote Mark Twain - "swap juices" a little too much, so that they are in danger of losing their own identity and don't give themselves time enough in which to work out what's really of importance to them - they're too busy.

For in this walk, this voyage, it is yourself, the profound history of your 'self,' that now as always you encounter.

Poetry will absorb and transmute, as it always has done, and glorify, all that we can know.

I began by doing book reviews on the typewriter and then went over to short stories on the machine, meanwhile sticking to pencil for poetry.