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

Remorse is a virtue in that it is a stirrer up of the emotions but it is a folly to accept it is a criticism of conduct.

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

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.

But the sea which no one tends is also a garden

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.

Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.