The poet is always our contemporary.

The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.

But nevertheless, the fact remained, it was almost impossible to dislike anyone if one looked at them.

For it is probable that when people talk aloud, the selves (of which there may be more than two thousand) are conscious of disserverment, and are trying to communicate but when communication is established there is nothing more to be said.

Odd how the creative power at once brings the whole universe to order.

Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.

To know whom to write for is to know how to write.