Poetry is the dark side of the moon.

The music of memory has its own pitch,/which not everyone hears.

If you want great tranquility/ It's hard work and a long walk

It's linkage I'm talking about, and harmonies and structures, And all the various things that lock our wrists to the past.

Our dreams are luminous, a cast fire upon the world. Morning arrives and that's it. Sunlight darkens the earth.

It may not be written in any book, but it is written - You can't go back, you can't repeat the unrepeatable.

All forms of landscape are autobiographical.