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.

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

Poets are being pursued by the philosophers today, out of the poverty of philosophy. God damn it, you might think a man had no business to be writing, to be a poet unless some philosophic stinker gave him permission.

Imagination though it cannot wipe out the sting of remorse can instruct the mind in its proper uses.

What power has love but forgiveness?

What power has love but forgiveness? In other words by its intervention what has been done can be undone. What good is it otherwise?