Beneath It All, Desire Of Oblivion Runs:

And Immediately Rather Than Words Comes The Thought Of High Windows: The Sun-comprehending Glass, And Beyond It, The Deep Blue Air, That Shows Nothing, And Is Nowhere, And Is Endless.

I Never Think Of Poetry Or The Poetry Scene, Only Separate Poems Written By Individuals.

I Wonder Love Can Have Already Set In Dreams, When We've Not Met More Times Than I Can Number On One Hand.

It Is Fatal To Decide, Intellectually, What Good Poetry Is Because You Are Then In Honour Bound To Try To Write It, Instead Of The Poems That Only You Can Write.

In Everyone There Sleeps. A Sense Of Life Lived According To Love. To Some It Means The Difference They Could Make. By Loving Others, But Across Most It Sweeps. As All They Might Have Done Had They Been Loved. That Nothing Cures.