The time will come when, with elation, you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror, and each will smile at the other’s welcome.
When you get a class reciting some great poems, it'll tear your heart out.
I try to forget what happiness was, and when that don't work, I study the stars.
Peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.
The voice does go up in a poem. It is an address, even if it is to oneself.
The personal vocabulary, the individual melody whose metre is one's biography, joins in that sound, with any luck, and the body moves like a walking, a waking island.