What's lightly hid is deepest understood.

The eye is pleased when nature stoops to art.

Composition for me is, externally at least, scarcely distinguishable from catatonia.

Caught Summer is always an imagined time. Time gave it, yes, but time out of any mind. There must be prime In the heart to beget that season, to reach past rain and find Riding the palest days Its perfect blaze.

All that we do is touched with ocean, and yet we remain on the shore of what we know

That's the main business of the poem!-to see if you can't make up a language that sets all your selves talking at once-all of them being fair to each other.

Teach me, like you, to drink creation whole/ And casting out myself, become a soul.