Meanwhile myself et cetera lay quietly in the deep mud et cetera (dreaming, et cetera, of your smile eyes knees and of your Etcetera.)

To destroy is always the first step in any creation.

All in green went my love riding

Exists no miracle mightier than this: to feel.

The sweet small clumsy feet of april came into the ragged meadow of my soul.

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

Nobody loses all the time.