Some we know to be dead even though they walk among us; some are not yet born though they go through all the forms of life; other are hundreds of years old though they call themselves thirty-six.

Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift$$$ now toss their crests$$$ and fall and rise$$$ and falls again. I am a poet$$$ yes. Surely I am a great poet.

I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use$$$ broken words$$$ inarticulate words$$$ like the shuffling of feet on pavement.

It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.

He thought her beautiful$$$ believed her impeccably wise; dreamed of her$$$ wrote poems to her$$$ which$$$ ignoring the subject$$$ she corrected in red ink.

The reason a writer writes a book is to forget a book and the reason a reader reads one is to remember it.

The ice was not only broken; it was shivered into a million fragments.

When it comes to letting the world in on the secrets of his heart$$$ he has about as much shrinking reticence as a steam calliope.

I don't know if you have had the same experience$$$ but the snag I always come up against when I'm telling a story is this dashed difficult problem of where to begin it.

There occurred to me the simple epitaph which$$$ when I am no more$$$ I intend to have inscribed on my tombstone. It was this: "He was a man who acted from the best motives. There is one born every minute."