Excess Is The Common Substitute For Energy.

The Ocean, Under The Pulsation Of Lighthouses And Noise Of Bell Buoys, Advances As Usual, Looking As If It Were Not That Ocean In Which Dropped Things Are Bound To Sink-- In Which If They Turn And Twist, It Is Neither With Volition Nor Consciousness.

Poetry Is The Art Of Creating Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads.

Poetry ... ... A Place For The Genuine, Hands That Can Grasp, Eyes That Can Dilate, Hair That Can Rise

We Are What We Were At Birth, And Each Trait Has Remained In Conformity With Earth's And With Heaven's Logic: Be The Devil's Tool, Resort To Black Magic, None Can Diverge From The Ends Which Heaven Foreordained.

At All Events There Is In Brooklyn Something That Makes Me Feel At Home.