What "love" is I don't know if it's not the response of our deepest natures to one another.

My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.

Either I exist or I do not exist, and no amount of pap which I happen to be lapping can dull me to the loss.

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

When I am alone I am happy.

No ideas but in things.

Danse Russe If I when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists above shining trees,-- if I in my north room dance naked, grotesquely before my mirror waving my shirt round my head and singing softly to myself: "I am lonely, lonely. I was born to be lonely, I am best so!" If I admire my arms, my face, my shoulders, flanks, buttocks against the yellow drawn shades,-- Who shall say I am not the happy genius of my household?