Poetry is mostly hunches.

If you need a certain vitality you can only supply it yourself, or there comes a point, anyway, when no one's actions but your own seem dramatically convincing and justifiable in the plot that the number of your days concocts.

The winter does what it can for its children.

Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.

And so we turn the page over. To think of starting. This is all there is.

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night, Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents, through narrow passes. But will he know where to find you, Recognize you when he sees you, Give you the thing he has for you?

until only infinity remained of beauty