But it is good to be several floors up in the dead of night wondering whether you are any good or not and the only decision you can make is that you did it.

It may be that poetry makes life's nebulous events tangible to me and restores their detail; or conversely, that poetry brings forth the intangible quality of incidents which are all too concrete and circumstantial. Or each on specific occasions, or both all the time.

The artificial is always innocent.

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

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.

You just go on your nerve.

I love you. I love you, but I’m turning to my verses and my heart is closing like a fist.