Among the tortures and devestations of life is this then - our friends are not able to finish their stories.

Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life.

I like going from one lighted room to another, such is my brain to me; lighted rooms.

The poet gives us his essence, but prose takes the mould of the body and mind entire.

There is a coherence in things, a stability; something... is immune from change and shines out... in the face of the flowing, the fleeting, the spectral, like a ruby.

It is useless to read Greek in translation; translators can but offer us a vague equivalent.

And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.