Life is not free from its forms.

For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.

True villains are extremely photogenic.

Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.

Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.

What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.