let it go -- the smashed word broken open vow or the oath cracked length wise -- let it go it was sworn to go let them go -- the truthful liars and the false fair friends and the boths and neithers -- you must let them go they were born to go let all go -- the big small middling tall bigger really the biggest and all things -- let all go dear so comes love
Art is a mystery. A mystery is something immeasurable.
Here's to opening and upward... and to yourself and up with you and up with and up with laughing.
you shall above all things be glad and young For if you're young,whatever life you wear it will become you;and if you are glad whatever's living will yourself become.
Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to most people?
I spill my bright incalculable soul
It is with roses and locomotives (not to mention acrobats Spring electricity Coney Island the 4th of July the eyes of mice and Niagara Falls) that my poems are competing.
There is no music unless the drum and the drummer are one.
notice the convulsed orange inch of moon perching on this silver minute of evening
love is the every only god
America makes prodigious mistakes, America has colossal faults, but one thing cannot be denied: America is always on the move. She may be going to Hell, of course, but at least she isn't standing still.
It takes three to make a child.
O sweet spontaneous earth
Nobody loses all the time.
you said Is there anything which is dead or alive more beautiful than my body,to have in your fingers (trembling ever so little)? Looking into your eyes Nothing,i said,except the air of spring smelling of never and forever. ....and through the lattice which moved as if a hand is touched by a hand(which moved as though fingers touch a girl's breast, lightly) Do you believe in always,the wind said to the rain I am too busy with my flowers to believe,the rain answered
wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world my blood approves, and kisses are a far better fate than wisdom lady i swear by all flowers.
somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence; in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near
If a poet is anybody, he is somebody to whom things made matter very little - somebody who is obsessed by Making.
Sweet springtime is my time is your time is our time for springtime is love time and viva sweet love.
Unbeing dead isn't being alive.
Knowledge is a polite word for dead but not buried imagination.
-tomorrow is our permanent address and there they’ll scarcely find us(if they do, we’ll move away still further:into now
A world of made is not a world of born
When skies are hanged and oceans drowned, the single secret will still be man
Treat a man like dirt-he produces flowers.
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