Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?

Twilight whippoorwill... Whistle on, sweet deepener Of dark loneliness

Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.

The desire to break the silence with constant human noise is, I believe, precisely an avoidance of the sacred terror of that divine encounter.

In this poor body, composed of one hundred bones and nine openings, is something called spirit, a flimsy curtain swept this way and that by the slightest breeze. It is spirit, such as it is, which led me to poetry, at first little more than a pastime, then the full business of my life. There have been times when my spirit, so dejected, almost gave up the quest, other times when it was proud, triumphant. So it has been from the very start, never finding peace with itself, always doubting the worth of what it makes.

I felt quite at home, / As if it were mine sleeping lazily / In this house of fresh air.

How I long to see among dawn flowers, the face of God.