The Eyes Of My Eyes Are Opened.

For Whatever We Lose (like A You Or A Me), It's Always Our Self We Find In The Sea.

Whenever You Think Or You Believe Or You Know, You're A Lot Of Other People: But The Moment You Feel, You're Nobody-but-yourself.

O To Be In Finland/ Now That Russia's Here)

There Are Certain Things In Which One Is Unable To Believe For The Simple Reason That He Never Ceases To Feel Them. Things Of This Sort - Things Which Are Always Inside Of Us And In Fact Are Us And Which Consequently Will Not Be Pushed Off Or Away Where We Can Begin Thinking About Them - Are No Longer Things; They, And The Us Which They Are, Equals A Verb; An Is.

The Snow Doesn't Give A Soft White Damn Whom It Touches.