I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.

A perfect example of the new republic's urge to drape itself with the togas of classical respectability.

Its a bit mad. Too bad, I mean, that getting to know each just for a fleeting second Must be replaced by unperfect knowledge of the featureless whole Like some pocket history of the world, so general As to constitute a sob or wail

The soul establishes itself. But how far can it swim out through the eyes And still return safely to its nest?

Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!

The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes

I feel that poetry is going on all the time inside, an underground stream.