“All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged, fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find.”

“I would look out upon the wildflowers, the mulch of swamps and leaves, the spring mosses greening on the rocks, or the boulderous mountains of street-black snow, whatever season it happened to be- my mittens clotted with ice, or my hands grimy with marsh mud- and from the back of my larynx I’d send part of my voice out toward the horizon and part of it straight up toward the sky. There must have been some pain in me. I wanted to howl and fly and break apart.”

“My heart always timidly hides itself behind my mind. I set out to bring down stars from the sky, then, for fear of ridicule, I stop and pick little flowers of eloquence.”

“I keep butter in my underwear, because it’s like a meat locker down there. Can I interest you in two rolls of bread?”

“A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water.”

“Now winter downs the dying of the year,And night is all a settlement of snow;From the soft street the rooms of houses showA gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thinAnd still allows some stirring down within.”