The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.

Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?

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.

God and the imagination are one.

In the same way, you were happy in spring, With the half colors of quarter-things, The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds, The single bird, the obscure moon- The obscure moon lighting an obscure world Of thing that would never be quite expressed, Where you yourself were never quite yourself And did not want nor have to be.

Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.

The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.