A poem is a small machine made of words.

There is no thing that with a twist of the imagination cannot be something else. Porpoises risen in a green sea, the wind at nightfall bending the rose- red grasses and you- in your apron hurrying to catch- say it seems to you to be your son. How ridiculous! You will pass up into a cloud and look back at me, not count the scribbling foolish that put wings at your heels, at your knees.

One thing I am convinced more and more is true, and that is this: The only way to be truly happy is to make others happy. When you realize that and take advantage of the fact, everything is made perfect.

A poem is a small machine made out of words.

Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.

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

A poem is a small machine made of words.