Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps... so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in.

And books which told me everything about the wasp, except why.

These are but dreaming men. Breathe, and they fade.

My birthday began with the water - Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name.

Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.