A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind.

For the beginning is assuredly the end- since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities.

No wreaths please - especially no hothouse flowers. Some common memento is better, something he prized and is known by: his old clothes - a few books perhaps.

Hell take curtains! Go with some show of inconvenience; sit openly - to the weather as to grief. Or do you think you can shut your grief in?

The better work men do is always done under stress and at great personal cost.

A poem is a small machine made of words.