My room for books and study or for sitting and thinking about nothing in particular to see what would happen was at the end of a hall.
I remember the Chillicothe ballplayers grappling the Long Island ball players in a sixteen-inning game ended by darkness. And the shoulders of the Chillicothe players were a red smoke against the sundown and the shoulders of the Rock Island players were a yellow smoke against the sundown. And the umpire's voice was hoarse calling balls and strikes and outs and the umpire's throat fought in the dust for a song.
Poetry is a diary kept by a sea creature who lives on land and wishes he could fly.
I have become infected, now that I see how beautifully a book is coming out of all this.
I cried over beautiful things, knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
out of great Russia came three dusky syllables workmen took guns and went out to die for: Bread, Peace, Land.
You know being born is important to you. You know nothing else was ever so important to you.
Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
The shovel is the brother to the gun.
So I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Life goes before we know what it is. / One fool is enough in any house. / Even God gets tired of too much hallelujah. / Take it easy and live long as brothers.
I have always felt that a woman has the right to treat the subject of her age with ambiguity until, perhaps, she passes into the realm of over ninety. Then it is better she be candid with herself and with the world.
There is a music for lonely hearts nearly always. If the music dies down there is a silence. Almost the same as the movement of music. To know silence perfectly is to know music.
I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.
Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.
The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time
The drum in a dream pounds loud to the dreamer.
Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?
Tell no man anything, for no man listens Yet hold thy lips ready to speak.
Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.
God, let me remember all good losers.
Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path, matched up with foam-flanked horses, bloody knuckles, and bones, on the hard ways to the stars.
Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.
Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it.
His books were part of him. Each year of his life, it seemed, his books became more and more a part of him. This room, thirty by twenty feet, and the walls of shelves filled with books, had for him the murmuring of many voices. In the books of Herodotus, Tacitus, Rabelais, Thomas Browne, John Milton, and scores of others, he had found men of face and voice more real to him than many a man he had met for a smoke and a talk.
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