Success is relative. It is what we make of the mess we have made of things.

Those who talk of the bible as a monument of English prose are merely admiring it as a monument over the grave of Christianity.

In my beginning is my end.

The dove descending breaks the air With flame of incandescent terror Of which the tongues declare The one discharge from sin and error. The only hope, or else despair Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre- To be redeemed from fire by fire. Who then devised the torment? Love. Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove. We only live, only suspire Consumed by either fire or fire.

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

A woman drew her long black hair out tight, And fiddled whisper music on those strings, And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings, And crawled head downward down a blackened wall.

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.