here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

All ignorance toboggans into know and trudges up to ignorance again.

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you

Spring is like a perhaps hand

If a poet is anybody, he is somebody to whom things made matter very little - somebody who is obsessed by Making.

A world of made is not a world of born

The most wasted of all days is one without laughter.