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.

A poem is a small machine made of words.

The only realism in art is of the imagination.

All women are not Helen, I know that, but have Helen in their hearts.

It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.

There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.

It was the love of love, the love of swallows up all else, a grateful love, a love of natural, of people, of animals, a love ingengering gentleness and goodness that moved meand that I saw in you