Love Is Form, And Cannot Be Without

My Life Has Been Given Its Orders: The Seasons Seize The Soul And The Body, And Make Mock Of Any Dispersed Effort. The Hour Of Death Is The Only Trespass

One Perception Must Immediately And Directly Lead To A Further Perception

I Defer To All These Other American Poets Who, For Some Reason, I Both Envy And Admire.

Dead, Hung Up Indoors, The Kingfisher Will Not Indicate A Favoring Wind, Or Avert The Thunderbolt.

Atlantis Will Rise Again.