when man determined to destroy himself he picked the was of shall and finding only why smashed it into because.

If a poet is anybody, he is somebody to whom things made matter very little - somebody who is obsessed by Making.

since the thing perhaps is to eat flowers and not to be afraid

love is the every only god

Such was a poet and shall be and is -who'll solve the depths of horror to defend a sunbeam's architecture with his life: and carve immortal jungles of despair to hold a mountain's heartbeat in his hand.

Your head is a living forest full of songbirds.

-Before leaving my room i turn, and (stooping through the morning) kiss this pillow, dear where our heads lived and were.