I think that at a certain age, say fifteen or sixteen, poetry is like masturbation. But later in life good poets burn their early poetry, and bad poets publish it. Thankfully I gave up rather quickly.

The sweetest melody that playsOn starry nights and wintry days,Most soothing to my listening earsAnd calming to beleaguering fears,I call a symphony on air―The song of sweet, still silence rare.

... imaginary gardens with real toads in them ...... if you demand on one hand,the raw material of poetry inall its rawness andthat which is on the other handgenuine, then you are interested in poetry.

Hay que ser muy valiente para vivir con miedo.Contra lo que se cree comúnmente,no es siempre el miedo asunto de cobardes.Para vivir muerto de miedo,hace falta, en efecto, muchísimo valor.

Evet, gün geliyor bıkıyorum sendenAma İstanbul'dan bıkmak gibi bir şey bu,Git, istersen, cüzam kap bir yerlerden,Görmek istersen, nicedir, tutkunluğumu.

Landscape is my religion....God in a green legend, I lean over the poolIn a testament of leaves. I dangle my twinkling mood Before me in a cool cave roofed with branchesAnd floored with a skin of water.

Spend all you have for loveliness,Buy it and never count the cost;For one white singing hour of peaceCount many a year of strife well lost,And for a breath of ecstasyGive all you have been, or could be.

Kretanje je duša svega što drhti.Započinje tako da se prvo dogodi trenutakonima koji žive trenutak,a onda se, onima koji žive vječnost,vječnost nametne kao bolest.

The Abandoned ValleyCan you understand being alone so longyou would go out in the middle of the nightand put a bucket into the wellso you could feel something down theretug at the other end of the rope?

An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die.

The fact that Iam writing to youin Englishalready falsifies what Iwanted to tell you.My subject:how to explain to youthat I don't belong to Englishthough I belong nowhere else,if not herein English.

These wrinkles are nothingThese gray hairs are nothing,This stomach which sagswith old food, these bruisedand swollen ankles, my darkening brain,they are nothing.I am the same boymy mother used to kiss.

SOWING LIGHTNINGSeizeBolts of lightning from the skyAnd plant them in fields of life.They will grow like tender sprouts of fire.Charge somber thoughtsWith unexpected flash,You, my lightning in the soil!

My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me. 'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak. 'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? 'I never know what you are thinking. Think.

Still round the corner there may wait A new road or a secret gateAnd though I oft have passed them by A day will come at last when IShall take the hidden paths that run West of the Moon, East of the Sun.