You've Got An Awfully Kissable Mouth.

She Was A Faded But Still Lovely Woman Of Twenty-seven.

Every Author Ought To Write Every Book As If He Were Going To Be Beheaded The Day He Finished It.

The Lights Grow Brighter As The Earth Lurches Away From The Sun.

Poetry Is Either Something That Lives Like Fire Inside You -- Like Music To The Musician Or Marxism To The Communist -- Or Else It Is Nothing, An Empty, Formalized Bore Around Which Pedants Can Endlessly Drone Their Notes And Explanations.

I Felt A Haunting Loneliness Sometimes, And Felt It In Others--young Clerks In The Dusk, Wasting The Most Poignant Moments Of Night And Life.