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

The perfect type of the man of action is the suicide.

You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty Shaken by your beauty Shaken.

As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.

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.

Outside, the north wind, coming and passing, swelling and dying, lifts the frozen sand drives it a-rattle against the lidless windows and we may dear sit stroking the cat stroking the cat and smiling sleepily, prrrr.

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