Poetry Is A Diary Kept By A

Poetry Is A Section Of River-fog And Moving Boat-lights, Delivered Between Bridges And Whistles, So One Says, 'oh!' And Another, 'how?'

I Decided I Would Go To Chicago And Try My Luck As A Writer After Those Eight Months As A Fireman.

The Woman Named Tomorrow Sits With A Hairpin In Her Teeth And Takes Her Time

Look Out How You Use Proud Words. When You Let Proud Words Go, It Is Not Easy To Call Them Back. They Wear Long Boots, Hard Boots; They Walk Off Proud; They Can't Hear You Calling. Look Out How You Use Proud Words.

Lay Me On An Anvil, O God. Beat Me And Hammer Me Into A Steel Spike.