Wear scarlet! Tear the green lemons off the tree! I don't want to forget who I am, what has burned in me, and hang limp and clean, an empty dress -

There's in my mind a... turbulent moon-ridden girl or old woman, or both, dressed in opals and rags, feathers and torn taffeta, who knows strange songs but she is not kind.

There is no savor more sweet, more salt than to be glad to be what, woman, and who, myself, I am.

Marvelous Truth, confront us at every turn, in every guise.

Insofar as poetry has a social function it is to awaken sleepers by other means than shock.

Affliction is more apt to suffocate the imagination than to stimulate it.

What I heard was my whole self saying and singing what it knew: I can.