To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.

until only infinity remained of beauty

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night.

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

The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...

Much that is beautiful must be discarded So that we may resemble a taller Impression of ourselves.

One listens to a piece of great music, say, and feels deeply moved by it, and wants to put this feeling into words, but it can't be put into words. That's what - the music has already supplied the meaning, and words will just be superfluous after that. But it's that kind of verbal meaning that can't be verbalized that I try to get at in poetry.