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

The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.

The perfect type of the man of action is the suicide.

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

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

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.

Empty pockets make empty heads.