In the great cities, winter glitters with art and feasting. But poetry, the country cousin, sees only the dearth of the fields.
While we are reading, we are all Don Quixote.
People are not the way they are primarily in order to annoy me.
Young poets bewail the passing of love; old poets, the passing of time. There is surprisingly little difference.
Our punning minds rejoin what logic has separated.
I want to appear ordinary, but I have it understood that I am not.