As small as a world as large as alone.

A politician is an arse upon which everyone has sat except a man.

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

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

And still the mad magnificent herald Spring assembles beauty from forgetfulness with the wild trump of April:witchery of sound and odour drives the wingless thing man forth in the bright air.

When skies are hanged and oceans drowned, the single secret will still be man

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