What childishness is it that while there's breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around?

Icebergs behoove the soul (both being self-made from elements least visible) to see themselves: fleshed, fair, erected, indivisible.

And as to experience-well, think how little some good poets have had, or how much some bad ones have.

The armored cars of dreams, contrived to let us do so many a dangerous thing.

Close, close all night the lovers keep. They turn together in their sleep, Close as two pages in a book that read each other in the dark. Each knows all the other knows, learned by heart from head to toes.

Ports are necessities, like postage stamps or soap, but they seldom seem to care what impressions they make.

What one seems to want in art, in experiencing it, is the same thing that is necessary for its creation, a self-forgetful, perfectly useless concentration.