Philosophy: a purple bullfinch in a lilac tree.
I had seen birth and death but had thought they were different.
The last thing one discovers in composing a work is what to put first.
There is no escape from metre; there is only mastery.
History may be servitude. History may be freedom. See, now they vanish. The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them, to become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.
Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.