I . . . am small, like the wren, and my hair is bold like the chestnut burr; and my eyes like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves.

Those who have not found the heaven below, will fail of it above.

The poet lights the light and fades away. But the light goes on and on.

I felt a Cleaving in my Mind- As if my Brain had split- I tried to match it- Seam by Seam- But could not make it fit.

Beauty is just a light switch away...'click!' Beauty is not caused. It is.

The possible's slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.

The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.