Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.

I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.

Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.

If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I'm neurotic as hell.

I am too pure for you or anyone.

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.