In summer, the song sings itself.

If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.

What can any of us do with his talent but try to develop his vision, so that through frequent failures we may learn better what we have missed in the past.

Afraid lest he be caught up in a net of words, tripped up, bewildered and so defeated-thrown aside-a man hesitates to write down his innermost convictions.

But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It is directly, that is, of the senses, and since the senses do not exist without an object for their employment all art is necessarily objective. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents.

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.

A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.