Happy in all that ragged, loose collapse of water, the fountain, its effortless descent and flatteries of spray.

There is a poignancy in all things clear, In the stare of the deer, in the ring of a hammer in the morning. Seeing a bucket of perfectly lucid water We fall to imagining prodigious honesties.

Step off assuredly into the blank of your mind. Something will come to you.

The strength of the genie comes from being in a bottle.

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.

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.

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