Hate does not present many choices; if hate is your solution, you are fairly certain to hate all phemonena with equal joy and intensity, without troubling to drag into prominence any one feature from the loathsome whole.

The Initial Mystery that attends any journey is: how did the traveler reach his starting point in the first place?

Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

Perhaps this very instant is your time.

Poetry is often generations in advance of the thought of its time.

Innocence of heart and violence of feeling are necessary in any kind of superior achievement: The arts cannot exist without them.

I hope that one or two immortal lyrics will come out of all this tumbling around.