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

Whatever pains disease may bring Are but the tangy seasoning To Loves delicious fare.

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

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.

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

What is our praise or pride but to imagine excellence and try to make it? What does it say over the door of heaven; but, homo (sapiens) fecit?

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.