The perfect type of the man of action is the suicide.

You have the chicken, the hen, and the rooster. The chicken goes with the hen So who is having sex with the rooster?

What "love" is I don't know if it's not the response of our deepest natures to one another.

As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.

Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.

The Moon, the dried weeds and the Pleiades - Seven feet tall the dark, dried weed stalks make a part of the night a red lace on the milky blue sky

A poem is a small machine made of words.