The calm, Cool face of the river, Asked me for a kiss

Gather out of star-dust, Earth-dust, Cloud-dust, Storm-dust, And splinters of hail, One handful of dream-dust, Not for sale.

I stuck my head out the window this morning and spring kissed me bang in the face.

There is no color line in art.

I felt very bad in Washington. . . I didn't like my job, and I didn't know what was going to happen to me, and I was cold and half-hungry, so I wrote a great many poems.

For my best poems were all written when I felt the worst. When I was happy, I didn't write anything.

We build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how, and we stand on top of the mountain, free within ourselves.