this is thy hour o soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson
done,
thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the
themes thou lovest best,
night, sleep, death and the stars. ↗
Does something which exists on the edge have no true relevance to the stable center, or does it, by being on the edge, become a part of the edge and thus a part of the boundary, the definition which gives the whole its shape? ↗
There is poetry even in prose, in all the great prose which is not merely utilitarian or didactic: there exist poets who write in prose or at least in more or less apparent prose; millions of poets write verses which have no connection with poetry. ↗