Love Has Earth To Which She Clings.

For Me The Initial Delight Is In The Surprise Of Remembering Something I Didn't Know I Knew. I Have Never Started A Poem Yet Whose End I Knew.

Thinking Isn't Agreeing Or Disagreeing. That's Voting.

The Sweet Of Bitter Bark And Burning Clove.

The Mind-is Not The Heart. I May Yet Live, As I Know Others Live, To Wish In Vain To Let Go With The Mind- Of Cares, At Night, To Sleep; But Nothing Tells Me That I Need Learn To Let Go With The Heart.

I Was Under Twenty When I Deliberately Put It To Myself One Night After Good Conversation That There Are Moments When We Actually Touch In Talk What The Best Writing Can Only Come Near. The Curse Of Our Book Language Is Not So Much That It Keeps Forever To The Same Set Phrases . . . But That It Sounds Forever With The Same Reading Tones. We Must Go Out Into The Vernacular For Tones That Haven't Been Brought To Book.