The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.
Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.
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.
All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.
Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?