The eastern light our spires touch at morning, The light that slants upon our western doors at evening, The twilight over stagnant pools at batflight, Moon light and star light, owl and moth light, Glow-worm glowlight on a grassblade. O Light Invisible, we worship Thee!

We had the experience, but we missed the meaning.

They don't understand what it is to be awake, / To be living on several planes at once / Though one cannot speak with several voices at once.

To make an end is to make a beginning.

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

It is a test (a positive test, I do not assert that it is always valid negatively), that genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.

An editor should tell the author his writing is better than it is. Not a lot better, a little better.