Sometimes nothing is so solid to me as writing - I suppose that's what a vocation means - at times a torment, a bad conscience, but all in all, purpose and direction.

The world is absolutely out of control now and is not going to be saved by any reason or unreason.

I saw the spiders marching through the air, Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day In latter August when the hay Came creaking to the barn. But where The wind is westerly, Where gnarled November makes the spiders fly Into the apparitions of the sky, They purpose nothing but their ease and die Urgently beating east to sunrise and the sea.

And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.

If youth is a defect, it is one we outgrow too soon.

In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.

The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.