All Are / Naked, None Is Safe.

Poetry Is All Nouns And Verbs.

The Self Does Not Realize Itself Most Fully When Self-realization Is Its Most Constant Aim.

The Sweet Air Coming Into Your House On A Fine Day, From Water Etched With Waves As Formal As The Scales On A Fish.

Wolf's Wool Is The Best Of Wool, / But It Cannot Be Sheared Because / The Wolf Will Not Comply.

Below The Incandescent Stars / Below The Incandescent Fruit, / The Strange Experience Of Beauty; / Its Existence Is Too Much; / It Tears One To Pieces / And Each Fresh Wave Of Consciousness / Is Poison.