Philosophy: a purple bullfinch in a lilac tree.
Where shall the word be found, where will the word / Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence.
Every moment is a new and shocking transvaluation of all we have ever been.
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.
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.
and now you live dispersed on ribbon roads, And no man knows or cares who is his neighbor Unless his neighbor makes too much disturbance, But all dash to and fro in motor cars, Familiar with the roads and settled nowhere.