The armored cars of dreams, contrived to let us do so many a dangerous thing..

Being a poet is one of the unhealthier jobs--no regular hours, so many temptations!.

Open the book. (The gilt rubs off the edges of the pages and pollinates the fingertips.).

I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips, Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips, With melody, deep, clear, and liq….

I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat half out of water, with my hook fast in a corner of his mouth. He didn't fight. . . . ….

Heaven is not like flying or swimming, but has something to do with blackness and a strong glare..

The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster..

Close, close all night the lovers keep. They turn together in their sleep, Close as two pages in a book that read each other in the dark. Each knows ….

Something needn't be large to be good..

I am overcome by my own amazing sloth...Can you please forgive me and believe that it is really because I want to do something well that I don't do i….

If after I read a poem the world looks like that poem for 24 hours or so I'm sure it's a good one—and the same goes for paintings..

Hoping to live days of greater happiness, I forget that days of less happiness are passing by..

What one seems to want in art, in experiencing it, is the same thing that is necessary for its creation, a self-forgetful, perfectly useless concentr….

All my life I have lived and behaved very much like the sandpiper - just running down the edges of different countries and continents, 'looking for s….

I was made at right angles to the world and I see it so. I can only see it so..

But he sleeps on the top of his mast with his eyes closed tight. The gull inquired into his dream, which was, "I must not fall. The spangled sea belo….

There are some people whom we envy not because they are rich or handsome or successful, although they may be all or any of these, but because everyth….

Why shouldn't we, so generally addicted to the gigantic, at last have some small works of art, some short poems, short pieces of music [...], some in….

It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free..

Someone loves us all..

Sometimes it seemsas though only intelligent people are stupid enough to fall in love & only stupid people are intelligent enough to let themselves b….