Really unreal world, will you perhaps do the breathing for me while I am away?
Nobody loses all the time.
That which we die for lives as wholly as that which we live for dies.
Unbeing dead isn't being alive.
So far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was, is, and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality.
Be of love a little more careful than of anything.
...on forever's very now we stand.
Here's to opening and upward... and to yourself and up with you and up with and up with laughing.
The symbol of all art is the Prism. The goal is unrealism. The method is destructive. To break up the white light of objective realism, into the secret glories which it contains.
notice the convulsed orange inch of moon perching on this silver minute of evening
Equality is what does not exist among mortals.
love is a deeper season than reason; my sweet one
it may not always be so; and i say that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch his heart, as mine in time not far away; if on another's face your sweet hair lay in such a silence as i know,or such great writhing words as, uttering overmuch, stand helplessly before the spirit at bay; if this should be, i say if this should be- you of my heart, send me a little word; that i may go unto him, and take his hands, saying, Accept all happiness from me. Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird sing terribly afar in the lost lands.
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.
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
Always it’s Spring)and everyone’s in love and flowers pick themselves.
May my heart always be open to little birds, who are the secrets of living. Whatever they sing is better than to know. And if men should not hear them - then men are old.
Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to most people?
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.
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.
I spill my bright incalculable soul
Time's a strange fellow; more he gives than takes (and he takes all).
It takes three to make a child.
Love is a place & through this place of love move (with brightness of peace) all places yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skillfully curled) all worlds
There is no music unless the drum and the drummer are one.
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