Step off assuredly into the blank of your mind. Something will come to you.

Composition for me is, externally at least, scarcely distinguishable from catatonia.

Whatever pains disease may bring Are but the tangy seasoning To Loves delicious fare.

The strength of the genie comes from being in a bottle.

Happy in all that ragged, loose collapse of water, the fountain, its effortless descent and flatteries of spray.

I would feel dead if I didn't have the ability periodically to put my world in order with a poem. I think to be inarticulate is a great suffering, and is especially so to anyone who has a certain knack for poetry.

What's lightly hid is deepest understood.