All The Poems Of Our Lives Are

Dreams Are The Sources Of Action, The Meeting And The End, A Resting Place Among The Flight Of Things.

There Has Been In Our Time A Lack Of Reliance On Language And A Lack Of Experimentation Which Are Frightening To Anyone Who Sees Them As Symptoms. We Know The Phenomenon Of Stage-fright: It Holds The Player Shivering, Incapable Of Speech Or Action. Perhaps There Is An Audience-fright Which The Play Can Feel, Which Leaves Him With These Incapacities.

Not All Things Are Blest, But The Seeds Of All Things Are Blest.

One Writes In Order To Feel.

There Is Also, In Any History, The Buried, The Wasted, And The Lost.