We Shake With Joy, We Shake With

Sing, If You Can Sing, And It Not Still Be Musical Inside Yourself.

As Long As You're Dancing, You Can Break The Rules.

I Feel The Terror Of Idleness, Like A Red Thirst. Death Isn't Just An Idea.

The Poet Must Not Only Write The Poem But Must Scrutinize The World Intensely, Or Anyway That Part Of The World He Or She Has Taken For Subject. If The Poem Is Thin, It Is Likely So Not Because The Poet Does Not Know Enough Words, But Because He Or She Has Not Stood Long Enough Among The Flowers--has Not Seen Them In Any Fresh, Exciting, And Valid Way.

A Fact: One Picks It Up And Reads It, And Puts It Down, And There Is An End To It. But An Idea! That One May Pick Up, And Reflect Upon, And Oppose, And Expand, And So Pass A Delightful Afternoon Altogether.