I learned not to fear infinity, The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water.

I have gone into the waste lonely places

A lively understandable spirit Once entertained you. It will come again. Be still. Wait.

The darkness has it's own light.

The soul has many motions, body one.

Over every mountain there is a path, although it may not be seen from the valley.

You must believe: a poem is a holy thing - a good poem, that is. The poem, even a short time after being written, seems no miracle; unwritten, it seems something beyond the capacity of the gods.