The Bride, The White Bride Today A

To Burn With Desire And Keep Quiet About It Is The Greatest Punishment We Can Bring On Ourselves.

My Poetry Is A Game. My Life Is A Game. But I Am Not A Game.

Hour Of Stars (1920) The Round Silence Of Night, One Note On The Stave Of The Infinite. Ripe With Lost Poems, I Step Naked Into The Street. The Blackness Riddled By The Singing Of Crickets: Sound, That Dead Will-o'-the-wisp, That Musical Light Perceived By The Spirit. A Thousand Butterfly Skeletons Sleep Within My Walls. A Wild Crowd Of Young Breezes Over The River.

I Want To Be A Poet, From Head To Toe, Living And Dying By Poetry.

Fire Is Fed By Fire. The Same Small Flame Destroys Two Stalks Of Wheat At Once.