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Ho! Ho! Ho! To the bottle I go
To heal my heart and drown my woe
Rain may fall, and wind may blow
And many miles be still to go
But under a tall tree will I lie
And let the clouds go sailing by.

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness that is an in-dwelling nature.

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.
Always be a poet, even in prose.

Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.

You only live twice: Once when you're born and once when you look death in the face. Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.

She seems so cool, so focused, so quiet, yet her eyes remain fixed upon the horizon.
You think you know all there is to know about her immediately upon meeting her,
but everything you think you know is wrong. Passion flows through her like a river of blood.
She only looked away for a moment, and the mask slipped, and you fell. All your tomorrows start here.”

As it has been said:
Love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love.

If I had my life to live over again, I would have made a rule to read some poetry and listen to some music at least once every week.

Still round the corner there may wait.
A new road or a secret gate and though
I oft have passed them by
A day will come at last when I Shall take
the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.”

What is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life. Let our scars fall in love.

One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.

Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky, We fell them down and turn them into paper, That we may record our emptiness.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, The sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes.

I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

If you are a dreamer come in, If you are a dreamer a wisher a liar. A hoper a pray-er a magic-bean-buyer
If youre a pretender com sit by my fire. For we have some flax golden tales to spin.

Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice I think I know enough of hate. To say that for destruction ice Is also great and would suffice.

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best day and night to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.

Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.