Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.

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

I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.

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

What falls away is always. And is near.

And I walked, I walked through the light air; I moved with the morning.

Reason? That dreary shed, that hutch for grubby schoolboys.