The Only Way Out Is Through.

One Of The Lies Would Make It Out That Nothing Ever Presents Itself Before Us Twice. Where Would We Be At Last If That Were So? Our Very Life Depends On Everything's Recurring Till We Answer From Within.

Word I Was In My Life Alone, / Word I Had No One Left But God.

I Have Wished A Bird Would Fly Away, And Not Sing By My House All Day.

You Can Be A Little Ungrammatical If You Come From The Right Part Of The Country.

I Could Define Poetry This Way: It Is That Which Is Lost Out Of Both Prose And Verse In Translation.