Deftly they opened the brain of a child, and it was full of flying dreams.
Certainly the modern poets I cherish most are disturbing spirits; they do not come to coo.
Forward my mail to Mars.
One critic wrote . . . that my poems sounded as though they had been translated from the Hungarian. I don't know why, but somehow that made me feel quite lighthearted.
Memory is each man's poet-in-residence.
I dropped my hoe and ran into the house and started to write this poem, 'End of Summer.’ It began as a celebration of wild geese. Eventually the geese flew out of the poem, but I like to think they left behind the sound of their beating wings.