O my enormous piano, you are not like being outdoors

That's not a run in your stocking, it's a hand on your leg.

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

I dislike a great deal of contemporary poetry - all of the past you read is usually quite great - but it is a useful thorn to have in one's side.

I loved her fright, which was against me into the air! and the diamond white of her forelock which seemed to smart with thoughts as my heart smarted with life! and she'd toss her head with the pain and paw the air and champ the bit, as if I were Endymion and she, moon-like, hated to love me.

I'm becoming the street. Who are you in love with? me? Straight against the light I cross.

I wonder if the course of narcissism through the ages would have been any different had Narcissus first peered into a cesspool. He probably did.