Our life runs down in sending up the clock. The brook runs down in sending up our life. The sun runs down in sending up the brook. And there is something sending up the sun. It is this backward motion toward the source, Against the stream, that most we see ourselves in, The tribute of the current to the source. It is from this in nature we are from. It is most us.

I write to find out what I didn't know I knew.

You don't have to deserve your mother's love. You have to deserve your father's.

Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting.

Man that is of woman born is apt to be as vain has his mother.

I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain - and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

The only certain freedom's in departure.