I End Not Far From My Going

If One By One We Counted People Out

There Are Few Sorrows, However Poignant, In Which A Good Income Is Of No Avail.

Poetry Is The Renewal Of Words, Setting Them Free, And That's What A Poet Is Doing: Loosening The Words.

The Difference Between A Man And His Valet: They Both Smoke The Same Cigars, But Only One Pays For Them.

Why Make So Much Of Fragmentary Blue In Here And There A Bird, Or Butterfly, Or Flower, Or Wearing-stone, Or Open Eye, When Heaven Presents In Sheets The Solid Hue?