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

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

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

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind.

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

Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!

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