beauty’ is related not to ‘loveliness’ but to a state in which reality plays a part.

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

That which is possible is inevitable.

My first poem was a bolt from the blue … it broke a spell of disillusion and suicidal despondence. ... it filled me with soul satisfying joy.

Outside, the north wind, coming and passing, swelling and dying, lifts the frozen sand drives it a-rattle against the lidless windows and we may dear sit stroking the cat stroking the cat and smiling sleepily, prrrr.

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

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.