"Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during a moment."

“Drum on your drums, batter on your banjos, sob on the long cool winding saxophones. Go to it, O jazzmen.”

“Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar. Let me pry loose old walls. Let me lift and loosen old foundations.”

“When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs, he forgot the copperheads and the assassin... in the dust, in the cool tombs.”

“Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work — I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor: What place is this? Where are we now?”

“The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over the harbor and city on silent haunches, and then moves on.”

“Hog Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders.”