A longing for the dance stirs in the buried life.
Memory is each man's poet-in-residence.
We have to learn how to live with our frailties. The best people I know are inadequate and unashamed.
I can hardly wait for tomorrow, it means a new life for me each and every day.
When they shall paint our sockets gray And light us like a stinking fuse, Remember that we once could say, Yesterday we had a world to lose.
An old poet ought never to be caught with his technique showing.