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.

Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.

What falls away is always. And is near.

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

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

The damage of teaching: the constant contact with the undeveloped.

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