There are certain things in which one is unable to believe for the simple reason that he never ceases to feel them. Things of this sort - things which are always inside of us and in fact are us and which consequently will not be pushed off or away where we can begin thinking about them - are no longer things; they, and the us which they are, equals A Verb; an IS.

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses

I spill my bright incalculable soul

O sweet spontaneous earth how often has the naughty thumb of science prodded thy beauty thou answereth them only with spring.

i remember we all cried like the Missouri when my Uncle Sol's coffin lurched because somebody pressed a button (and down went my uncle Sol and started a worm farm)

And the reason that i laugh and breathe is oh love

A world of made is not a world of born