We can catch buses and count our change and cross the roads and talk real sentences. But our innocence goes awfully deep, and our discreditable secret is that we don’t know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don’t care that we don’t.
Youth calls to age across the tired years: ‘What have you found,’ he cries, ‘what have you sought?” ‘What have you found,’ age answers through his tears, ‘What have you sought.
It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobbledstreets silent and the hunched courters’-and-rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.
These poems, with all their crudities, doubts and confusions, are written for the love of man and in Praise of God, and I’d be a damn fool if they weren’t.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Call me Dolores. Like they do in the stories.
An alcoholic is someone you don’t like who drinks as much as you do.
A good poem is a contribution to reality. The world is never the same once a good poem has been added to it. A good poem helps to change the shape of the universe, helps to extend everyone’s knowledge of himself and the world around him.
My birthday began with the water – Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name.
Light breaks where no sun shines; Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart; Push in their tides.
Do not go gently into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I believe in New Yorkers. Whether they’ve ever questioned the dream in which they live, I wouldn’t know, because I won’t ever dare ask that question.
Come on up, boys -I’m dead.
He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.
I hold a beast, an angel and a madman within me.
Love is the last light spoken.
Though they go mad they shall be sane, though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; though lovers be lost love shall not; and death shall have no dominion.
I said some words to the close and holy darkness and then I slept.
I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble; It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream.