I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.

Education is not filling

It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is

All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.

What can be explained is not poetry.

Imagining in excited reverie That the future years had come, Dancing to a frenzied drum, Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?