My soul is now her day, my day her night, So I lie down, and so I rise.

The good poet sticks to his real loves, to see within the realm of possibility. He never tries to hold hands with God or the human race.

The body, what is it, Father, but a sign To love the force that grows us, to give back What in Thy palm is senselessness and mud?

To make the child in your own image is a capital crime, for your image is not worth repeating. The child knows this and you know it. Consequently you hate each other.

Poetry is not a way of saying things; it's a way of seeing things.

My soul is now her day, my day her night, So I lie down, and so I rise.

Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience, because each poetic experience is unique.