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

I'll write whatever I damn please, whenever I damn please and as I damn please and it'll be good if the authentic spirit of change is on it.

Say it, no ideas but in things - nothing but the blank faces of the houses and cylindrical trees bent, forked by preconception and accident - split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained - secret - into the body of the light!

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.

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

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

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