In spite of all the dishonour, the broken standards, the broken lives, The broken faith in one place or another, There was something left that was more than the tales Of old men on winter evenings.

And all shall be well and/ All manner of thing shall be well/ By the purification of the motive/ In the ground of our beseeching

In a mind charged with an eager purpose and an unfinished vindictiveness, there is no room for new feelings.

Every moment is a new and shocking transvaluation of all we have ever been.

Accident is design / And design is accident / In a cloud of unknowing.

Every moment is a fresh beginning.

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.