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

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

When I am alone I am happy.

A poem is a small machine made out of words.

Say it, no ideas but in things - nothing but the blank faces of the houses and cylindrical trees bent, forked by preconception and accident - split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained - secret - into the body of the light!

It is not what you say that matters but the manner in which you say it; there lies the secret of the ages.

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