Like the burlesque comedian, I am abnormally fond of that precision which creates movement.

Love is a place & through this place of love move (with brightness of peace) all places yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skillfully curled) all worlds

You have played, (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break, and— Just tired. So am I.

Unless you love someone, nothing else makes any sense.

What concerns me fundamentaly is a meteoric burlesk melodrama, born of the immemorial adage love will find a way.

The Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds.

There are certain things in which one is unable to believe for the simple reason that he never ceases to feel them. Things of this sort - things which are always inside of us and in fact are us and which consequently will not be pushed off or away where we can begin thinking about them - are no longer things; they, and the us which they are, equals A Verb; an IS.