Composition for me is, externally at least, scarcely distinguishable from catatonia.
The eye is pleased when nature stoops to art.
Odd that a thing is most itself when likened
All that we do is touched with ocean, and yet we remain on the shore of what we know
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.
Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the product's something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.