We think by feeling. What is there to know?

By daily dying, I have come to be.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go.

A too explicit elucidation in education destroys much of the pleasure of learning. There should be room for sly hinters, masters of suggestion.

You must believe a poem is a holy thing, a good poem, that is.

What have I done, dear God, to deserve this perpetual feeling that I'm almost ready to begin something really new?

The stones were sharp, The wind came at my back; Walking along the highway, Mincing like a cat.