In the garden I will die. In the rosebush they will kill me.

Theatre is poetry that rises from the book and becomes human enough to talk and shout, weep and despair

Hour of Stars (1920) The round silence of night, one note on the stave of the infinite. Ripe with lost poems, I step naked into the street. The blackness riddled by the singing of crickets: sound, that dead will-o'-the-wisp, that musical light perceived by the spirit. A thousand butterfly skeletons sleep within my walls. A wild crowd of young breezes over the river.

The poem, the song, the picture, is only water drawn from the well of the people, and it should be given back to them in a cup of beauty so that they may drink - and in drinking understand themselves.

There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them.

Those who are afraid of death will carry it on their shoulders.

My head is full of fire and grief and my tongue runs wild, pierced with shards of glass.