I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.

A poem is a small machine made of words. . .Its movement is intrinsic, undulant, a physical more than a literary character.

No ideas but in things.

Most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see them

The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.

My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.

The better work men do is always done under stress and at great personal cost.