In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

All it comes down to is this: I feel like shit but look great.

Either everything in man can be traced as a development from below$$$ or something must come from above. There is no avoiding that dilemma: you must be either a naturalist or a supernaturalist.

Daffodil bulbs instead of balls<br>Stared from the sockets of the eyes!<br>He knew that thought clings round dead limbs<br>Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

We die with the dying;<br>See$$$ they depart$$$ and we go with them.<br>We are born with the dead:<br>See$$$ they return$$$ and bring us with them.

And so each venture is a new beginning$$$ a raid on the inarticulate.

Poetry consists in so rendering concrete objects that the emotions produced by the objects shall arise in the reader.

You dozed$$$ and watched the night revealing<br>The thousand sordid images<br>Of which your soul was constituted.

But time past is a time forgotten. We expect the rise of a new constellation.

It is what we can make of the mess we have made of things.