Any fool can take a bad line out of a poem; it takes a real pro to throw out a good line.

Should we say the self, once perceived, becomes the soul?

What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?

The fields stretch out in long unbroken rows. We walk aware of what is far and close. Here distance is familiar as a friend. The feud we kept with space comes to an end.

By daily dying, I have come to be.

Art is our defense against hysteria and death.

Love is not love until love's vulnerable.