A poem is a small machine made out of words.

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

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.

History must stay open, it is all humanity.

Danse Russe If I when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists above shining trees,-- if I in my north room dance naked, grotesquely before my mirror waving my shirt round my head and singing softly to myself: "I am lonely, lonely. I was born to be lonely, I am best so!" If I admire my arms, my face, my shoulders, flanks, buttocks against the yellow drawn shades,-- Who shall say I am not the happy genius of my household?

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

What "love" is I don't know if it's not the response of our deepest natures to one another.