It's a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!

My first poem was a bolt from the blue … it broke a spell of disillusion and suicidal despondence. ... it filled me with soul satisfying joy.

A poem is this:/A nuance of sound/delicately operating/upon a cataract of sense/...the particulars/of a song waking/upon a bed of sound.

No ideas but in things.

If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.

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

Empty pockets make empty heads.