Why shouldn't we, so generally addicted to the gigantic, at last have some small works of art, some short poems, short pieces of music [...], some intimate, low-voiced, and delicate things in our mostly huge and roaring, glaring world?

The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Insomnia" perhaps she's a daytime sleeper.

I've never written the things I'd like to write that I've admired all my life. Maybe one never does.

I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips, Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips, With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow. Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low, Of some song sung to rest the tired dead, A song to fall like water on my head, And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow! There is a magic made by melody: A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep To the subaqueous stillness of the sea, And floats forever in a moon-green pool, Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

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

It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free.