Poetry demands a different material than prose. It uses another facet of the same fact... the spontaneous conformation of language as it is heard.

We sit and talk quietly, with long lapses of silence, and I am aware of the stream that has no language, coursing beneath the quiet heaven of your eyes, which has no speech.

THESE are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night and the heart plunges lower than night.

My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.

It's a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!

Everyone in this life is defeated but a man, if he be a man, is not defeated.

Say it, no ideas but in things - nothing but the blank faces of the houses and cylindrical trees bent, forked by preconception and accident - split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained - secret - into the body of the light!