It is not fair to be old, to put on a brown sweater.

A new world is only a new mind.

It's a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind.

You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty Shaken by your beauty Shaken.

It is almost impossible to state what one in fact believes, because it is almost impossible to hold a belief and to define it at the same time.

Poetry demands a different material than prose. It uses another facet of the same fact... the spontaneous conformation of language as it is heard.