The nightingales are singing near The Convent of the Sacred Heart, And sang within the bloody wood When Agamemnon cried aloud, And let their liquid siftings fall To stain the stiff dishonored shroud.

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.

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope, For hope would be hope for the wrong thing.

No place of grace for those who avoid the Face. No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the Voice.

In a world of fugitives, the person taking the opposite direction will appear to run away.

Honest criticism and sensitive appreciation are directed not upon the poet but upon the poetry.

That was my way of putting it-not very satisfactory: A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion, Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle With words and meanings.