The Moon, the dried weeds and the Pleiades - Seven feet tall the dark, dried weed stalks make a part of the night a red lace on the milky blue sky

Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.

A new music is a new mind.

A poem is a small machine made of words.

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

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.