A poem is a small machine made of words.

The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.

Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.

Poets are being pursued by the philosophers today, out of the poverty of philosophy. God damn it, you might think a man had no business to be writing, to be a poet unless some philosophic stinker gave him permission.

Imagination though it cannot wipe out the sting of remorse can instruct the mind in its proper uses.

It is not what you say that matters but the manner in which you say it; there lies the secret of the ages.

History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.