It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
The poet is the priest of the invisible.
It is never the thing but the version of the thing.
Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.
I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself; And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
I still feel the need of some imperishable bliss.