The bottom of the sea is cruel.

It is as though a poem gave the reader as he left it a single, new word, never before spoken and impossible to actually enunciate, but self-evident as an active principle in the reader’s consciousness henceforward.

There are no stars tonight but those of memory.

The form of my poem rises out of a past that so overwhelms the present with its worth and vision that I’m at a loss to explain my delusion that there exist any real links between that past and a future worthy of it.

One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them...

And inasmuch as the bridge is a symbol of all such poetry as I am interested in writing it is my present fancy that a year from now I’ll be more contented working in an office than ever before.

It has taken a great deal of energy, which has not been so difficult to summon as the necessary patience to wait, simply wait much of the time – until my instincts assured me that I had assembled my materials in proper order for a final welding into their natural form.

One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment.

Let my lusts be my ruin, then, since all else is a fake and a mockery.

Permit me voyage, love, into your hands...