And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness

The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.

Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.

I sank back in the gray, plush seat and closed my eyes. The air of the bell jar wadded round me and I couldn't stir.

I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy.

I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.

The tulips are too red...they hurt me.