I Don't Necessarily Read Everything. I Read

The Stones Themselves Are Thick With History, And Those Cats That Dash Through The Alleyways Must Surely Be The Ghosts Of The Famous Dead In Feline Disguise.

Critics Write Out Of Intellectual Exercise, Not Poets. Poets Write Straight From The Heart.

I Look Forward And See Myself Look Back.

We Write Poems / As Leaves Give Oxygen - / So We Can Breathe.

In Any Triangle, Who Is The Betrayer, Who The Unseen Rival, And Who The Humiliated Lover? Oneself, Oneself, And No One But Oneself!