The truth is that the poems are ecstatic.

The word and the shadow of the word / makes a thing both itself and something else / till we are metaphors and not ourselves . . .

All of Victorian verse is pentameter.

Memory that yearns to join the centre, a limb remembering the body from which it has been severed, like those bamboo thighs of the god.

Slowly my body grows a single sound, slowly I become a bell, an oval, disembodied vowel, I grow, an owl, an aureole, white fire poesia "Metamorfosi, I. Luna

Peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

The English language is nobody's special property. It is the property of the imagination: it is the property of the language itself.