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

they believe in Christ and Longfellow, both dead

the poems to come are for you and for me and are not for mostpeople... you and i are human beings; mostpeople are snobs.

When god decided to invent everything he took one reath bigger than a circustent and everything began

O sweet spontaneous earth how often have the doting fingers of prurient philosophers pinched and poked thee ,has the naughty thumb of science prodded thy beauty .how often have religions taken thee upon their scraggy knees squeezing and buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive gods (but true to the incomparable couch of death thy rhythmic lover thou answerest them only with spring)

Lovers alone wear sunlight.

there's time for laughing and there's time for crying— for hoping for despair for peace for longing —a time for growing and a time for dying: a night for silence and a day for singing but more than all(as all your more than eyes tell me)there is a time for timelessness