A poem is a small machine made out of words.

Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.

For the beginning is assuredly the end- since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities.

No opinion can be trusted; even the facts may be nothing but a printer's error.

Writing is not a searching about in the daily experience for apt similes and pretty thoughts and images… It is not a conscious recording of the day’s experiences ‘freshly and with the appearance of reality’… The writer of imagination would find himself released from observing things for the purpose of writing them down later. He would be there to enjoy, to taste, to engage the free world, not a world which he carries like a bag of food, always fearful lest he drop something or someone get more than he.

History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.

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