In thigh-high yellow leather boots Plump Saphonisba strides. Too bad that, just to hide her calves, Two calves have lost their hides.

I’d be glad to go out on a limb with those Who want nothing beyond what the wind bestows, Were I not bound to roots, dug in deep to bear Never being done grasping for light and air

On solemn asses fall plush sinecures, So keep a straight face and sit tight on yours.

The Purpose of Time is to Prevent Everything from Happening at Once

Let you hold in mind, girls, that your beauty must pass Like a lovely white clover that rusts with its grass. Keep your bottoms off barstools and marry you young Or be left--an old barrel with many a bung.

In poetry, only emotion endures.

Poetry is probably the one field of writing in which it is a mistake to try to psych out editors. In fact, specific marketing advice can sometimes harm the novice poet by enticing him to pursue fashions. The poet's best hope is to sound like nobody else, The finest, most enduring poetry constructs a marketplace of its own.