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

On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening

An autumn night - don’t think your life didn’t matter.

When composing a verse let there not be a hair's breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.

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

This autumn- why am I growing old? bird disappearing among clouds.

A flute with no holes is not a flute.