As Humans We Look At Things And

My Thoughts Are Crowded With Death And It Draws So Oddly On The Sexual That I Am Confused To Be Attracted By, In Effect, My Own Annihilation.

I Admired What My Students Were Writing, But I Think Their Improvement Doesn't Directly Result From Me But From Being In A Class, Being With Each Other.

We Learned In The University To Consider Wordsworth And Keats As Romantics. They Were Only A Generation Apart, But Wordsworth Didn't Even Read Keats's Book When He Gave Him A Copy.

As Humans We Look At Things And Think About What We've Looked At. We Treasure It In A Kind Of Private Art Gallery.

One Joins The Movement In A Valueless World, Choosing It, Till Both Hurler And The Hurled, One Moves As Well, Always Toward, Toward.