You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that.

I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.

Time can make soft that iron wood.

It's not true that life is one damn thing after another; it is one damn thing over and over.

SHE is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. She has more hair than she needs; In the sun ’tis a woe to me! And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea. She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways resign; But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine.

I drank at every vine, the last was like the first. I came upon no wine so wonderful as thirst.

This book, when I am dead, will be A little faint perfume of me. People who knew me well will say, She really used to think that way.