A terrible violence of creation,A flash into the burning heart of the abominable;Yet if we wait, unafraid, beyond the fearful instant,The burning lake turns into a forest pool,The fire subsides into rings of water,A sunlit silence.

I learn by going where I have to go.

The whiskey on your breath could make a small boy dizzy;But I hung on like death:Such waltzing was not easy.

All finite things reveal infinitude:
The mountain with its singular bright shade
Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow,
The after-light upon ice-burdened pines;
Odor of basswood on a mountain-slope,
A scent beloved of bees;
Silence of water above a sunken tree:
The pure serene of memory in one man, --
A ripple widening from a single stone
Winding around the waters of the world.

In the kingdom of bang and blab.

In a dark time, the mind begins to see.

When true love broke my heart in half,
I took the whiskey from the shelf,
And told my neighbors when to laugh.
I keep a dog, and bark myself.

And I walked, I walked through the light air; I moved with the morning.

What's important? That which is dug out of books, or out of the guts?

I always felt mean, jogging back over the logging road,As if I had broken the natural order of things in that swampland;Disturbed some rhythm, old and of vast importance,By pulling off flesh from the living planet;As if I had committed, against the whole scheme of life, a desecration.

What is madness but nobility of soul. At odds with circumstance?

O my poor words, bear with me.

I've recovered my tenderness by long looking;
I'm a Socrates of small fury.
The waves bends with the fish. I'm taught
As water teaches stone. Believe me, extremest oriole,
I can hear light on a dry day.
The world is where we fling it; I'm leaving where I am.

What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance.

Art is the means we have of undoing the damage of haste. It's what everything else isn't.

(Dreams drain the spirit if we dream too long.).

A wave of Time hangs motionless on this particular shore.
I notice a tree, arsenical grey in the light, or the slow
Wheel of the stars, the Great Bear glittering colder than snow,
And remember there was something else I was hoping for.

The soul has many motions, body one.

In our age, if a boy or girl is untalented, the odds are in favor of their thinking they want to write.

Live in a perpetual great astonishment.