Words Strain, Crack, And Sometime Break, Under

With Out Some Kind Of God, Man Is Not Very Intresting

If The Lost Word Is Lost, If The Spent Word Is Spent If The Unheard, Unspoken Word Is Unspoken, Unheard; Still Is The Spoken Word, The Word Unheard, The Word Without A Word, The Word Within The World And For The World; And The Light Shone In The Darkness And Against The Word The Unstilled World Still Whirled About The Center Of The Silent Word. Oh My People, What Have I Done Unto Thee. Where Shall The Word Be Found, Where Shall The Word Resound? Not Here, There Is Not Enough Silence

I Am Moved By Fancies That Are Curled, Around These Images And Cling, The Notion Of Some Infinitely Gentle, Infinitely Suffering Thing.

Except For The Point, The Still Point, There Would Be No Dance, And There Is Only The Dance

Honest Criticism And Sensitive Appreciation Are Directed Not Upon The Poet But Upon The Poetry.