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

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

A pretty girl who is naked / is worth a million statues

may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living

If at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.

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

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.