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

A new music is a new mind.

My first poem was a bolt from the blue … it broke a spell of disillusion and suicidal despondence. ... it filled me with soul satisfying joy.

In summer, the song sings itself.

I think these days when there is so little to believe in——when the old loyalties——God, country, and the hope of Heaven——aren't very real, we are more dependent than we should be on our friends. The only thing left to believe in——someone who seems beautiful.

Either I exist or I do not exist, and no amount of pap which I happen to be lapping can dull me to the loss.

To refine, to clarify, to intensify that eternal moment in which we alone live there is but a single force the imagination.