Knowledge is a polite word for dead but not buried imagination.

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

Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are by somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn, a human being.

One's not half two. It's two are halves of one.

The mind is its own beautiful prisoner. Mind looked long at the sticky moon opening in dusk her new wings then decently hanged himself,one afternoon. The last thing he saw was you naked amid unnaked things.

Exists no miracle mightier than this: to feel.

time is a tree (this life one leaf) but love is the sky and i am for you just so long and long enough