When the materials are all prepared and ready, the architects shall appear.

Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat; Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best; Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

The whole theory of the universe is directed unerringly to one single individual.

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun.... there are millions of suns left, You shall no longer take things at second or third hand.... nor look through the eyes of the dead.... nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.

Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.