It Has Often Been Observed

Happiness, For You We Walk On A Knife Edge. To The Eyes You Are A Flickering Light, To The Feet, Thin Ice That Cracks; And So May No One Touch You Who Loves You.

I Do Not Go In Search Of Poetry. I Wait For Poetry To Visit Me.

True Poetry Is Similar To Certain Pictures Whose Owner Is Unknown And Which Only A Few Initiated People Know.

Man Cannot Produce A Single Work Without The Assistance Of The Slow, Assiduous, Corrosive Worm Of Thought.

Too Many Lives Are Needed To Make Just One.