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

If 180 million people want to be undead, that’s their funeral, but I happen to like being alive.

O sweet spontaneous earth how often has the naughty thumb of science prodded thy beauty thou answereth them only with spring.

Yours is the light by which my spirit's born: - you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.

A bouquet of clumsy words: you know that place between sleep and awake where you're still dreaming but it's slowly slipping? I wish we could feel like that more often. I also wish I could click my fingers three times and be transported to anywhere I like. I wish that people didn't always say 'just wondering' when you both know there was a real reason behind them asking. And I wish I could get lost in the stars. Listen, there's a hell of a good universe next door, let's go.

When skies are hanged and oceans drowned, the single secret will still be man

suppose Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head.