To Wear The Arctic Fox You Have

Below The Incandescent Stars / Below The Incandescent Fruit, / The Strange Experience Of Beauty; / Its Existence Is Too Much; / It Tears One To Pieces / And Each Fresh Wave Of Consciousness / Is Poison.

A Writer Is Unfair To Himself When He Is Unable To Be Hard On Himself.

One Must Be As Clear As One's Natural Reticence Allows One To Be.

What I Write Could Only Be Called Poetry Because There Is No Other Category To Put It.

In A Poem The Words Should Be As Pleasing To The Ear As The Meaning Is To The Mind.