The eyes of this dead lady speak to me For here was love, was not to be drowned out. And here desire, not to be kissed away. The eyes of this dead lady speak to me.

Poetry is a very complex art.... It is an art of pure sound bound in through an art of arbitrary and conventional symbols.

small talk comes from small bones

This is no book. Whoever touches this touches a man.

No teacher has ever failed from ignorance. That is empiric professional knowledge. Teachers fail because they cannot `handle the class.' Real education must ultimately be limited to men how INSIST on knowing, the rest is mere sheep-herding.

I could I trust starve like a gentleman. It's listed as part of the poetic training, you know.

Glance is the enemy of vision.