Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.

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

[History is] a tyranny over the souls of the dead - and so the imagination of the living.

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

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

A poem is this:/A nuance of sound/delicately operating/upon a cataract of sense/...the particulars/of a song waking/upon a bed of sound.

It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.