I see no reason for calling my work poetry except that there is no other category in which to put it.

The self does not realize itself most fully when self-realization is its most constant aim.

Omissions are not accidents.

Conscious writing can be the death of poetry.

... imaginary gardens with real toads in them ... ... if you demand on one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand genuine, then you are interested in poetry.

Men are monopolists of "stars, garters, buttons and other shining baubles"- unfit to be the guardians of another person's happiness.

Which of us has not been stunned by the beauty of an animal's skin or its flexibility in motion?