It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.

I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I'm about fifty years behind as far as my preferences go and I must say that the poets who excite me most are the Americans. There are very few contemporary English poets that I admire.

A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.

The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B. Once you were beautiful.

Compared with me, a tree is immortal.

Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --