It’s up there, and you can see the front of it. But what it is isn’t what you’re looking at. It’s behind what you’re looking at.
It may not be written in any book, but it is written - You can't go back, you can't repeat the unrepeatable.
If you want great tranquility/ It's hard work and a long walk
November’s a burn and an ache.
How many times can summer turn to fall in one life?
How many years have slipped through our hands? At least as many as the constellations we still can identify. The quarter moon, like a light skiff, floats out of the mist-remnants Of last night’s hard rain. It, too, will slip through our fingers with no ripple, without us in it.