Danse Russe If I when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists above shining trees,-- if I in my north room dance naked, grotesquely before my mirror waving my shirt round my head and singing softly to myself: "I am lonely, lonely. I was born to be lonely, I am best so!" If I admire my arms, my face, my shoulders, flanks, buttocks against the yellow drawn shades,-- Who shall say I am not the happy genius of my household?

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

Man has survived hitherto because he was too ignorant to know how to realise his wishes- Now that he can realise them, he must either change them or perish

The Moon, the dried weeds and the Pleiades - Seven feet tall the dark, dried weed stalks make a part of the night a red lace on the milky blue sky

There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.

To refine, to clarify, to intensify that eternal moment in which we alone live there is but a single force the imagination.

Either I exist or I do not exist, and no amount of pap which I happen to be lapping can dull me to the loss.