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

Say this city has ten million souls, Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes: Yet there’s no place for us, my dear, yet there’s no place for us.

Thousands have lived without love, not one without water.

An unmanly sort of man whose love life seems to have been largely confined to crying in laps and playing mouse.

Every American poet feels that the whole responsibility for contemporary poetry has fallen upon his shoulders, that he is a literary aristocracy of one.

I think the first prerequisite to civilization is an ability to make polite conversation.

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.