Being, not doing, is my first joy.
I have gone into the waste lonely places
All lovers live by longing, and endure: Summon a vision and declare it pure.
What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?
And what a congress of stinks!- Roots ripe as old bait, Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich, Leaf mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks, Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.
Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire