She who reconciles the ill-matched threads Of her life, and weaves them gratefully Into a single cloth – It’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall And clears it for a different celebration.

We make our way through Everything like thread passing through fabric, giving shape to images that we ourselves do not know.

Who has not sat before his own heart's curtain? It lifts: and the scenery is falling apart.

You, darkness, of whom I am born- I love you more than the flame that limits the world to the circle it illumines and excludes the rest.

Fame, that public destruction of one in process of becoming, into whose building-ground the mob breaks, displacing his stones.

I have patience for centuries in me and will live as though my time were very big.

How can I keep my soul in me, so that it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise it high enough, past you, to other things?