May my heart always be open to little birds, who are the secrets of living. Whatever they sing is better than to know. And if men should not hear them - then men are old.

yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skilfully curled) all worlds

So far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was, is, and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality.

Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to most people?

I was too tired to think. I merely felt the town as a unique unreality. What was it? I knew -- the moon's picture of a town. These streets with their houses did not exist, they were but a ludicrous projection of the moon's sumptuous personality. This was a city of Pretend, created by the hypnotism of moonnight. -- Yet when I examined the moon she too seemed but a painting of a moon and the sky in which she lived a fragile echo of color. If I blew hard the whole shy mechanism would collapse gently with a neat soundless crash. I must not, or lose all.

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility

Unbeing dead isn't being alive.