It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.

I measure myself Against a tall tree I find that I am much taller, For I reach right up to the sun With my eye; And I reach to the shore of the sea With my ear. Nevertheless, I dislike The way the ants crawl In and out of my shadow.

Make the visible a little hard to see.

The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.

A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.

Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.

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