Human kind cannot bear much reality.
I take as metaphysical poetry that in which what is ordinarily apprehensible only by thought is brought within the grasp of feeling, or that in which what is ordinarily only felt is transformed into thought without ceasing to be feeling.
To become what you are not, behave as you do not.
The young feel tired at the end of an action, the old at the beginning.
I should have been a pair of ragged claws/ Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope, For hope would be hope for the wrong thing.