You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.

Poetry is news brought to the mountains by a unicorn and an echo.

A day so happy. Fog lifted early. I worked in the garden. Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers. There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess. I know no one worth my envying him.

They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds. I put this book here for you, who once lived So that you should visit us no more.

We have become indifferent to content, and react, not even to form, but to technique, to technical efficiency itself.

Be young forever, seasons of the earth.

You who think of us: they lived only in delusion... Know that we the People of the Book, will never die!