Tragedies come in the hungry hours.

How far we are going to read a poet when we can read about a poet is a problem to lay before biographers.

Thoughts without words… Can that be?

If the best of one's feelings means nothing to the person most concerned in those feelings, what reality is left us?

I enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say “This is it”? My depression is a harassed feeling. I’m looking: but that’s not it — that’s not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?

For nothing was simply one thing.

it is strange how the dead leap out on us at street corners, or in dreams