The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.

All the great things have been denied and we live in an intricacy of new and local mythologies, political, economic, poetic, which are asserted with an ever-enlarging incoherence.

Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?

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

We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.

In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.

Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.