There is something very cheerful and courageous in the setting-out of a child on a journey of speech with so small baggage and with so much confidence.

Spring and autumn are inconsiderable events in a landscape compared with the shadows of a cloud.

The true colour of life is the colour of the body, the colour of the covered red, the implicit and not explicit red of the living heart and the pulses. It is the modest colour of the unpublished blood.

My day-mind can endure / Upright, in hope, all it must undergo. / But O, afraid, unsure, / My night-mind waking lies too low, too low.

Red has been praised for its nobility of the color of life. But the true color of life is not red. Red is the color of violence, or of life broken open, edited, and published. Or if red is indeed the color of life, it is so only on condition that it is not seen. Once fully visible, red is the color of life violated, and in the act of betrayal and of waste.

Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn, / Unseen, this colorless sky of folded showers, / And folded winds...

There is something very cheerful and courageous in the setting-out of a child on a journey of speech with so small baggage and with so much confidence.