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

As the rain falls so does your love bathe every open object of the world

The pure products of America go crazy--mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey with its isolate lakes and valleys, its deaf-mutes, thieves.

I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.

It is difficult to get the news from poetry, 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.

Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood's edge