by night only crazy things like the full moon and the whippoorwill and us, are busy.
I sound like Homer. I mean Winslow Homer.
You can do anything, really. And that, l think, is one of the exciting possibilities of the present, l swear, is the possibility that the goddamn thing can be modaled throughout.
There is a grace of life which is still yours, my dear Europe.
bees dig the plum blossoms
My life has been given its orders: the seasons seize the soul and the body, and make mock of any dispersed effort. The hour of death is the only trespass
love is form, and cannot be without important substance
Not one death but many, not accumulation but change, the feed-back proves, the feed-back is the law
The body whips the soul. In its great desire it demands the elixir In the roar of spring, transmutations.
I'm sorry, but I was born with a towel on my head.
I don't live for poetry. I live far more than anybody else does.
You don't help people in your poems. I've been trying to help people all my life - that's my trouble
Fact is based upon vulgar matter.
Is it not the play of the mind we are after? Is it not that that shows a mind is there at all?
O.K. I'm running out of appetite. Let this swirl- a bit like Crab Nebula- do for now.
I was playing catch with the European audience.
Dead, hung up indoors, the kingfisher will not indicate a favoring wind, or avert the thunderbolt.
And all now is war where so lately there was peace, and the sweet brotherhood, the use of tilled fields.
one loves only form, and form only comes into existence when the thing is born.
The Canadian voice is still too rustic.
I take space to be the central fact to man born in America. I spell it large because it comes large here. Large and without mercy.
The heroes of the present will retreat to the imitation they are anyhow.
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