Many modern novels have a beginning, a muddle and an end.
So many things I had thought forgotten Return to my mind with stranger pain: Like letters that arrive addressed to someone Who left the house so many years ago.
Poetry is an affair of sanity, of seeing things as they are.
On me your voice falls as they say love should, Like an enormous yes.
I have no enemies. But my friends don't like me.
They say eyes clear with age.