An editor should tell the author his writing is better than it is. Not a lot better, a little better.

O Lord, deliver me from the man of excellent intention and impure heart: for the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.

There is one who remembers the way to your door: Life you may evade, but Death you shall not.

I am moved by fancies that are curled, around these images and cling, the notion of some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing.

We see the light but see not whence it comes. O Light Invisible, we glorify Thee!

not fare well, but fare forward

It takes so many years to learn that one is dead.