Dying for dark — and the darker the Worse. Strange.
Never but the one matter. The dead and gone. The dying and going. From the word go.
All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
It's so nice to know where you're going, in the early stages. It almost rids you of the wish to go there.
Do we mean love, when we say love?
All the things you would do gladly, oh without enthusiasm, but gladly, all the things there seems no reason for your not doing, and that you do not do! Can it be we are not free? It might be worth looking into.