The Rum Turn Tugger is a terrible bore: When you let him in, then he wants to be out; He's always on the wrong side of every door, And as soon as he's at home, then he'd like to get about.

Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, every poem an epitaph.

Poetry is not an assertion of truth, but the making of that truth more fully real to us.

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

No place of grace for those who avoid the Face. No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the Voice.

What have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment's surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed.

You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; They called me the hyacinth girl.' —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Od' und leer das Meer.