But time in only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there'll be mushrooms, fairy-ring mushrooms in the grass, sweetest of all fungi.

What "love" is I don't know if it's not the response of our deepest natures to one another.

When I am alone I am happy.

A poem is a small machine made out of words.

No opinion can be trusted; even the facts may be nothing but a printer's error.

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

Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!