So far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was, is, and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality.

What if a dawn of a doom of a dream bites this universe in two, peels forever out of his grave, and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?

Whatever's merely willful, and not miraculous (be never it so skilful) must wither fail and cease - but better than to grow beauty knows no.

Seeker of truth follow no path all paths lead where truth is here.

Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to most people?

Treat a man like dirt-he produces flowers.

i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows