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

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.

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

I came where the river Ran over stones; My ears knew An early joy. And all the waters Of all the streams Sang in my veins That summer day.

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

I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, In my veins, in my bones I feel it,- The small water seeping upward, The tight grains parting at last. When sprouts break out, Slippery as fish, I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.

I long for the imperishable quiet at the heart of form.