Before people complain of the obscurity of modern poetry, they should first examine their consciences and ask themselves with how many people and on how many occasions they have genuinely and profoundly shared some experience with another.
He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
Learn from your dreams what you lack.
The center that I cannot find is known to my unconscious mind.
Music can be made anywhere, is invisible and does not smell.
You know there are no secrets in America. It's quite different in England, where people think of a secret as a shared relation between two people.