The footpath down to the well is healed.
The question that he frames in all but words is what to make of a diminished thing.
Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me.
Something we were withholding made us weak, until we found it was ourselves.
I've given offense by saying I'd as soon write free verse as play tennis with the net down.
What you want, what you're hanging around in the world waiting for, is for something to occur to you.