In A World Of Fugitives, The Person

Here I Am, An Old Man In A Dry Month, Being Read To By A Boy, Waiting For Rain.

The Bad Poet Is Usually Unconscious Where He Ought To Be Conscious, And Conscious Where He Ought To Be Unconscious.

The Tiger Springs In The New Year. Us He Devours.

If You Desire To Drain To The Dregs The Fullest Cup Of Scorn And Hatred That A Fellow Human Being Can Pour Out For You, Let A Young Mother Hear You Call Dear Baby 'it.'

When A Poet's Mind Is Perfectly Equipped For Its Work, It Is Constantly Amalgamating Disparate Experience ?in The Mind Of The Poet These Experiences Are Always Forming New Wholes.