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

I think these days when there is so little to believe in——when the old loyalties——God, country, and the hope of Heaven——aren't very real, we are more dependent than we should be on our friends. The only thing left to believe in——someone who seems beautiful.

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Your knees are a southern breeze.

At our age the imagination across the sorry facts lifts us to make roses stand before thorns. Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse— at least, blinded by the light, young love is. But we are older, I to love and you to be loved, we have, no matter how, by our wills survived to keep the jeweled prize always at our finger tips. We will it so and so it is past all accident.

A poem is a small machine made of words.

No ideas but in things.

Empty pockets make empty heads.