Make Sense Who May. I Switch Off.

As It Is With The Love Of The Body, So With The Friendship Of The Mind, The Full Is Only Reached By Admittance To The Most Retired Places.

All Poetry, As Discriminated From The Various Paradigms Of Prosody, Is Prayer.

My Keepers, Why Keepers, I'm In No Danger Of Stirring An Inch, Ah I See, It's To Make Me Think I'm A Prisoner, Frantic With Corporeality, Rearing To Get Out And Away.

There's Never An End For The Sea.

Ah, The Old Questions, The Old Answers, There's Nothing Like Them!