Why should I not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside, looking into the shining world?

Music: what so many sentences aspire to be.

The poet dreams of the classroom I dreamed I stood up in class And I said aloud: Teacher, Why is algebra important? Sit down, he said. Then I dreamed I stood up And I said: Teacher, I’m weary of the turkeys That we have to draw every fall. May I draw a fox instead? Sit down, he said. Then I dreamed I stood up once more and said: Teacher, My heart is falling asleep And it wants to wake up. It needs to be outside. Sit down, he said.

Writing a poem ... is a kind of possible love affair between something like the heart (that courageous but also shy factory of emotion) and the learned skills of the conscious mind.

I wanted to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know, whoever I was, I was alive for a little while.

There is only one question: / how to love this world.

The end of life has its own nature, also worth our attention.