Days pass when I forget the mystery. Problems insoluble and problems offering their own ignored solutions jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing their colored clothes; caps and bells. And then once more the quiet mystery is present to me, the throng's clamor recedes: the mystery that there is anything, anything at all, let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything, rather than void: and that, 0 Lord, Creator, Hallowed one, You still, hour by hour sustain it.

Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.

Peace as a positive condition of society, not merely as an interim between wars, is something so unknown that it casts no images on the mind's screen.

The world is not with us enough. O taste and see.

I'm not very good at praying, but what I experience when I'm writing a poem is close to prayer.

The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.

I like to find what's not found at once, but lies within something of another nature, in repose, distinct.