Wonder is not precisely knowing.
Love is its own rescue; for we, at our supremest, are but its trembling emblems.
To shut your eyes is to travel.
A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.
I dwell in possiblities.
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?