I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky.

We would rather be ruined than changed. We would rather die in our dread than climb the cross of the moment and let our illusions die.

The sky is darkening like a stain Something is going to fall like rain And it won't be flowers

You must go to bed with friends or whores, where money makes up the difference in beauty or desire.

A poet's hope: to be, like some valley cheese, local, but prized elsewhere.

In a land which is fully settled, most men must accept their local environment or try to change it by political means; only the exceptionally gifted or adventurous can leave to seek his fortune elsewhere. In America, on the other hand, to move on and make a fresh start somewhere else is still the normal reaction to dissatisfaction and failure.

Health is the state about which medicine has nothing to say.