What falls away is always. And is near.
So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.
The damage of teaching: the constant contact with the undeveloped.
I long for the imperishable quiet at the heart of form.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I came where the river Ran over stones; My ears knew An early joy. And all the waters Of all the streams Sang in my veins That summer day.