Hoping to live days of greater happiness, I forget that days of less happiness are passing by.

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.

Being a poet is one of the unhealthier jobs--no regular hours, so many temptations!

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

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

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

The art of losing isn't hard to master.