Heaven is not like flying or swimming, but has something to do with blackness and a strong glare.

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

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.

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

I am overcome by my own amazing sloth...Can you please forgive me and believe that it is really because I want to do something well that I don't do it at all?

Think of the long trip home. Should we have stayed home and thought of here? Where should we be today?

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?