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

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.

November’s a burn and an ache.

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.

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

The ache for anything is a thick dust in the heart.

All forms of landscape are autobiographical.