As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.

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

At our age the imagination across the sorry facts lifts us to make roses stand before thorns. Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse— at least, blinded by the light, young love is. But we are older, I to love and you to be loved, we have, no matter how, by our wills survived to keep the jeweled prize always at our finger tips. We will it so and so it is past all accident.

History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.

It is almost impossible to state what one in fact believes, because it is almost impossible to hold a belief and to define it at the same time.

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

No wreaths please - especially no hothouse flowers. Some common memento is better, something he prized and is known by: his old clothes - a few books perhaps.