It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.
I will dream today; for I must unscrew my head somehow.
I am reading Henry James...and feel myself as one entombed in a block of smooth amber.
Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.
And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
She thought there were no Gods; no one was to blame; and so she evolved this atheist's religion of doing good for the sake of goodness.