The instant trivial as it is is all we have unless-unless things the imagination feeds upon, the scent of the rose, startle us anew.

When I am alone I am happy.

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

As the rain falls so does your love bathe every open object of the world

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

What power has love but forgiveness?

At our age the imagination across the sorry facts lifts us to make roses stand before thorns. Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse— at least, blinded by the light, young love is. But we are older, I to love and you to be loved, we have, no matter how, by our wills survived to keep the jeweled prize always at our finger tips. We will it so and so it is past all accident.