There is a brotherhood among the kindly- Closer and defter and more integral- Than any of aisle or coven- For love rang out before the chapel bell

For what use are books to anyone whose days are like a rook's nest with every twig a duty.

Yet not with all of me am I in love. Too much of my own quietness is with me.

We are all imprisoned by the dictionary. We choose out of that vast, paper-walled prison our convicts, the little black printed words, when in truth we need fresh sounds to utter, new enfranchised noises which would produce a new effect.

The Earth swirls down through the ominous moons of preconsidered generations.

Years on end, and swords on end - where will it end, if our ears unbend - what shall I spend on a wrinkled friend in a pair of tights like a bunch of lights?

To live at all is miracle enough.