yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skilfully curled) all worlds

love being such, or such, the normal corners of your heart will never guess how much my wonderful jealousy is dark

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

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.

O sweet spontaneous earth how often have the doting fingers of prurient philosophers pinched and poked thee ,has the naughty thumb of science prodded thy beauty .how often have religions taken thee upon their scraggy knees squeezing and buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive gods (but true to the incomparable couch of death thy rhythmic lover thou answerest them only with spring)

My advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world - unless you're not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), It's always our self we find in the sea.