The night below. We two. Crystal of pain. You wept over great distances. My ache was a clutch of agonies over your sickly heart of sand.

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

I know there is no straight road No straight road in this world Only a giant labyrinth Of intersecting crossroads

If I told you the whole story it would never end...What's happened to me has happened to a thousand woman.

What shall I say about poetry? What shall I say about those clouds, or about the sky? Look; look at them; look at it! And nothing more. Don't you understand anything about poetry? Leave that to the critics and the professors. For neither you, nor I, nor any poet knows what poetry is.

The day we stop resisting our instincts, we'll have learned how to live.

New York is a meeting place for every race in the world, but the Chinese, Armenians, Russians, and Germans remain foreigners. So does everyone except the blacks. There is no doubt but that the blacks exercise great influence in North America, and, no matter what anyone says, they are the most delicate, spiritual element in that world.