What we know of other people's only our memory of the moments during which we knew them.

The journey, Not the destination matters.

In a world of fugitives the one who stays home will seem to be running away

Poetry is not an assertion of truth, but the making of that truth more fully real to us.

And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Turning Wearily, as one would turn to nod goodbye to Rochefoucauld, If the street were time and he as the end of the street.

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.