Here's to opening and upward... and to yourself and up with you and up with and up with laughing.

Progress is a comfortable disease.

I was too tired to think. I merely felt the town as a unique unreality. What was it? I knew -- the moon's picture of a town. These streets with their houses did not exist, they were but a ludicrous projection of the moon's sumptuous personality. This was a city of Pretend, created by the hypnotism of moonnight. -- Yet when I examined the moon she too seemed but a painting of a moon and the sky in which she lived a fragile echo of color. If I blew hard the whole shy mechanism would collapse gently with a neat soundless crash. I must not, or lose all.

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

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.

The sensual mysticism of entire vertical being.

I like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more.