The poem goes form the poet's gibberish to The gibberish of the vulgate and back again.

A fictive covering Weaves always glistening from the heart and mind.

Is there a poem that never reaches words And one that chaffers the time away? Is the poem both peculiar and general? There's a meditation there, in which there…

Clothe me entire in the final filament, So that I tremble with such love so known And myself am precious for your perfecting.

Poetry: 'Poetry can bridge that gap between what is solid and what is suggested; poetry can pull cogent meaning from the vaporous illusions of the esoteric.'

Words ... are little houses, each with its cellar and garret. Common sense lives on the ground floor, always ready to engage in 'foreign commerce' on the same …

Poetry teaches the enormous force of a few words, and, in proportion to the inspiration, checks loquacity.