My Muse sits forlorn She wishes she had not been born She sits in the cold No word she says is ever told.

It is the privilege of the rich To waste the time of the poor To water with tears in secret A tree that grows in secret That bears fruit in secret That ripened falls to the ground in secret And manures the parent tree Oh the wicked tree of hatred and the secret The sap rising and the tears falling.

People who are always praising the past And especially the time of faith as best Ought to go and live in the Middle Ages And be burnt at the stake as witches and sages.

You must have some money if you are going to live simply. It need not be much, but you must have some.

Youth is an arithmetical statement of passing interest, each hour eats it up.

All poetry has to do is to make a strong communication. All the poet has to do is listen. The poet is not an important fellow. There will also be another poet.

The world is come upon me, I used to keep it a long way off, But now I have been run over and I am in the hands of the hospital staff.