The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over the harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.
What if someone gave a war & Nobody came? / Life would ring the bells of Ecstasy and Forever be Itself again.
Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts.
The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.
Rest is not a word of free people. Rest is a monarchical word.
Poetry is a diary kept by a sea creature who lives on land and wishes he could fly.
I never made a mistake in grammar but one in my life and as soon as I done it I seen it.
Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.
There is only one child in the world and the Child’s name is All Children.
out of great Russia came three dusky syllables workmen took guns and went out to die for: Bread, Peace, Land.
Nothing happens... but first a dream.
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 cried over beautiful things, knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
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.
I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.
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.
Tell no man anything, for no man listens Yet hold thy lips ready to speak.
Poetry is the capture of a picture, a song, or a flair, in a deliberate prism of words.
Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.
A book is never a masterpiece: it becomes one. Genius is the talent of a dead man.
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work- I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg. And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years,and passengers ask the conductor- What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work.
Calling it off comes easy enough if you haven't told the girl you are smitten with her.
I remember in my early 20s when I felt I couldn't live past 30. I was learning how to write. I had a lot of hard work ahead of me.
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