My soul is now her day, my day her night, So I lie down, and so I rise.

The modern essay has regained a good deal of its literary status in our time, much to the credit of Joseph Epstein.

The good poet sticks to his real loves, to see within the realm of possibility. He never tries to hold hands with God or the human race.

But with exquisite breathing you smile, with satisfaction of love, And I touch you again as you tick in the silence and settle in sleep.

Poetry is not a way of saying things; it's a way of seeing things.

Already old, the question Who shall die? Becomes unspoken Who is innocent?

The body, what is it, Father, but a sign To love the force that grows us, to give back What in Thy palm is senselessness and mud?