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

The Moon, the dried weeds and the Pleiades - Seven feet tall the dark, dried weed stalks make a part of the night a red lace on the milky blue sky

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.

O Marvelous! What new configuration will come next? I am bewildered with multiplicity.

I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it.

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

The American idiom has much to offer us that the English language has never heard of