Poetry Is A Mystic, Sensuous Mathematics Of

Anger Is The Most Impotent Of Passions. It Effects Nothing It Goes About, And Hurts The One Who Is Possessed By It More Than The One Against Whom It Is Directed.

It Is Necessary Now And Then For A Man To Go Away By Himself And Experience Loneliness; To Sit On A Rock In The Forest And To Ask Of Himself, 'who Am I, And Where Have I Been, And Where Am I Going?'...if One Is Not Careful, One Allows Diversions To Take Up One's Time-the Stuff Of Life

Lay Me On An Anvil, O God. Beat Me And Hammer Me Into A Steel Spike.

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.

Poetry Is An Enumeration Of Birds, Bees, Babies, Butterflies, Bugs, Bambinos, Babayagas, And Bipeds, Beating Their Way Up Bewildering Bastions.