The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.

If you aren't in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?

The destination cannot be described; / You will know very little until you get there; / You will journey blind.

Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair- Lean on a garden urn- Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

Art never improves, but... the material of art is never quite the same.

Not the intense moment Isolated, with no before and after, But a lifetime burning in every moment.