Signs are taken for wonders. / 'We would see a sign!' / The word within a word, unable to speak a word, / Swaddled with darkness.

Turning Wearily, as one would turn to nod goodbye to Rochefoucauld, If the street were time and he as the end of the street.

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.

And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

Poetry is a mug's game.

A good deal of confusion could be avoided, if we refrained from setting before the group, what can be the aim only of the individual; and before society as a whole, what can be the aim only of the group.

Now that the lilacs are in bloom She has a bowl of lilacs in her room