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

It was the love of love, the love of swallows up all else, a grateful love, a love of natural, of people, of animals, a love ingengering gentleness and goodness that moved meand that I saw in you

Imagination though it cannot wipe out the sting of remorse can instruct the mind in its proper uses.

Afraid lest he be caught up in a net of words, tripped up, bewildered and so defeated-thrown aside-a man hesitates to write down his innermost convictions.

A poem is a small machine made out of words.

The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.

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.