Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.

The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice

The point of vision and desire are the same.

Poetry is a means of redemption.

New York is a field of tireless and antagonistic interests undoubtedly fascinating but horribly unreal. Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.

The mind can never be satisfied.