Being a poet is one of the unhealthier jobs – no regular hours, so many temptations!
The armored cars of dreams, contrived to let us do so many a dangerous thing.
Democracy in the contemporary world demands, among other things, an educated and informed people.
I was made at right angles to the world and I see it so. I can only see it so.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Think of the long trip home. Should we have stayed home and thought of here? Where should we be today?
Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house.
What childishness is it that while there’s breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around?
Close, close all night the lovers keep. They turn together in their sleep, Close as two pages in a book that read each other in the dark. Each knows all the other knows, learned by heart from head to toes.
Someone loves us all.
The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored.
I’ve never written the things I’d like to write that I’ve admired all my life. Maybe one never does.
Ports are necessities, like postage stamps or soap, but they seldom seem to care what impressions they make.
I HATED the Salinger story. It took me days to go through it, gingerly, a page at a time, and blushing with embarrassment for him every ridiculous sentence of the way. How can they let him do it?
Something needn’t be large to be good.
You are you and you are going to be YOU forever.
Everything only connected by “and” and “and.
Since we do float on an unknown sea, I think we should examine the other floating things that come our way carefully; who knows what may depend on it?
If they should say you have no sense, don’t you mind them; it won’t make much difference. Lullaby.
I believe in the oblique, the indirect approach and I keep my feelings to myself.
Sleep on and on, war’s over soon. Drop the silly, harmless toy, pick up the moon. Lullaby.