I Tried Each Thing, Only Some Were

The Summer Demands And Takes Away Too Much. /but Night, The Reserved, The Reticent, Gives More Than It Takes

The Soul Establishes Itself. But How Far Can It Swim Out Through The Eyes And Still Return Safely To Its Nest?

I Think That In The Process Of Writing, All Kinds Of Unexpected Things Happen That Shift The Poet Away From His Plan And That These Accidents Are Really What We Mean When We Talk About Poetry.

Then Let Yourself Love All That You Take Delight In Accept Yourself Whole, Accept The Heritage That Shaped You And Is Passed On From Age To Age Down To Your Entity. Remain Mysterious; Rather Than Be Pure, Accept Yourself As Numerous.

Where Then Shall Hope And Fear Their Objects Find?