I been a wanderin' Early and late, New York City To the Golden Gate An' it looks like I'm never gonna cease my Wanderin'.
Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
I stayed away from mathematics not so much because I knew it would be hard work as because of the amount of time I knew it would take, hours spent in a field where I was not a natural.
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work. I am the grass. I cover all.
The scholars and poets of an earlier time can be read only with a dictionary to help.
Tell me if the lovers are losers... tell me if any get more than the lovers.
There are ten men in me and I do not know or understand one of them.
Let your heart look on white sea spray and be lonely. Love is a fool star. You and a ring of stars may mention my name and then forget me. Love is a fool star.
Somebody's little girl- how easy it is to make a sob story over who she once was and who she now is.
Such a Big miracle in such a tiny baby. Big things often have small beginnings A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
The sea is always the same: and yet the sea always changes.
I am still studying verbs and the mystery of how they connect nouns. I am more suspicious of adjectives than at any other time in all my born days.
The people know what the land knows.
Alike and ever alike, we are on all continents in the need of love, food, clothing, work, speech, worship, sleep, games, dancing, fun. From tropics to arctics humanity live with these needs so alike, so inexorably alike.
What if someone gave a war & Nobody came? / Life would ring the bells of Ecstasy and Forever be Itself again.
What else have I done nearly all my life than go hungry and go on singing?
There is no song to your singing.
The peace of great books be for you, Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages, Bleach of the light of years held in leather.
The fog comes on little cat feet.
All my life I have been trying to learn to read, to see and hear, and to write.
Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.
And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.
The marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading "Keep Off.
We read Robert Browning's poetry. Here we needed no guidance from the professor: the poems themselves were enough.
Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.
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