For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.
We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.
The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.