Each part of speech a spark awaiting redemption, each a virtue, a power in abeyance.
I watch the clouds as I see them in pomp advancing, pursuing the fallen sun.
Praise the invisible sun burning beyond the white cold sky, giving us light and the chimney's shadow.
Teachers at all levels encourage the idea that you have to talk about things in order to understand them, because they wouldn't have jobs, otherwise. But it's phony, you know.
What joy when the insouciant armadillo glances at us and doesn't quicken his trotting across the track into the palm brush. What is this joy? That no animal falters, but knows what it must do?
Hypocrite women, how seldom we speak of our own doubts, while dubiously we mother man in his doubt!
Do you mistake me? I am speaking of living, of moving from one moment into the next, and into the one after, breathing death in the spring air.
I don't think one can accurately measure the historical effectiveness of a poem; but one does know, of course, that books influence individuals; and individuals, although they are part of large economic and social processes, influence history. Every mass is after all made up of millions of individuals.
Wear scarlet! Tear the green lemons off the tree! I don't want to forget who I am, what has burned in me, and hang limp and clean, an empty dress -
So absolute, it is no other than happiness itself, a breathing too quiet to hear.
We have the words in our pockets, obscure directions. The old ones have taken away the light of their presence.
I thought I was growing wings— it was a cocoon. I thought, now is the time to step into the fire— it was deep water. Eschatology is a word I learned as a child: the study of Last Things; facing my mirror—no longer young, the news—always of death, the dogs—rising from sleep and clamoring and howling, howling.... ("Seeing For a Moment")
The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.
The vast silence of Buddha overtakes and overrules the oncoming roar of tragic life that fills alleys and avenues; it blocks the way of pedicabs, police, convoys.
Among a hundred windows shining dully in the vast side of greater-than-palace number such-and-such one burns these several years, each night as if the room within were aflame.
I'll dig in into my days, having come here to live, not to visit. Grey is the price of neighboring with eagles, of knowing a mountain's vast presence, seen or unseen.
The stairway is not a thing of gleaming strands a radiant evanescence for angels' feet that only glance in their tread, and need not touch the stone.
Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry.
Death and pain dominate this world, for though many are cured, they leave still weak, still tremulous, still knowing mortality has whispered to them; have seen in the folding of white bedspreads according to rule the starched pleats of a shroud.
The threat of world's end is the old threat.
Don't eat those nice green dollars your wife gives you for breakfast.
In June the bush we call alder was heavy, listless, its leaves studded with galls, growing wherever we didn't want it.
In city, in suburb, in forest, no way to stretch out the arms - so if you would grow, go straight up or deep down.
Let me walk through the fields of paper touching with my wand dry stems and stunted butterflies.
The last cobwebs of fog in the black firtrees are flakes of white ash in the world's hearth.
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