“This was our ambition: to be small and clear and free. Alas, the summer’s energy wanes quickly, A moment and it is gone. And no longer May we make the necessary arrangements, simple as they are. Our star was brighter perhaps when it had water in it.”

“The term ignorant is indeed perhaps an overstatement, implying as it does that something is known somewhere, whereas in reality we are not even sure of this: we in fact cannot aver with any degree of certainty that we are ignorant. Yet this is not so bad; we have at any rate kept our open-mindedness -- that, at least, we may be sure that we have -- and are not in any danger, or so it seems, of freezing into the pious attitudes of those true spiritual bigots whose faces are turned toward eternity and who therefore can see nothing.”

“We live our lives, made up of a great quantity of / isolated instants / So as to be lost at the heart of a multitude of things.”

“But it is the same thing we are all seeing,Our world. Go after it,Go get it boy, says the man holding the stick.Eat, says the hunger, and we plunge blindly in again,Into the chamber behind the thought”

“The genius of Cornell is that he sees and enables us to see with the eyes of childhood, before our vision got clouded by experience, when objects like a rubber ball or a pocket mirror seemed charged with meaning, and a marble rolling across a wooden floor could be as portentous as a passing comet.”

“Some departure from the normWill occur as time grows more open about it.The consensus gradually changed; nobodyLies about it any more. Rust dark pouringOver the body, changing it without decay—People with too many things on their minds, but we liveIn the interstices, between a vacant stare and the ceiling,Our lives remind us. Finally this is consciousnessAnd the other livers of it get off at the same stop.How careless. Yet in the end each of usIs seen to have traveled the same distance—it’s timeThat counts, and how deeply you have invested in it,Crossing the street of an event, as though coming out of it wereThe same as making it happen. You’re not sorry,Of course, especially if this was the way it had to happen,Yet would like an exacter share, something about timeThat only a clock can tell you: how it feels, not what it means.It is a long field, and we know only the far end of it,Not the part we presumably had to go through to get there.If it isn’t enough, take the ideaInherent in the day, armloads of wheat and flowersLying around flat on handtrucks, if maybe it means moreIn pertaining to you, yet what is is what happens in the endAs though you cared. The event combined withBeams leading up to it for the look of force adapted to the wiserUsages of age, but it’s both thereAnd not there, like washing or sawdust in the sunlight,At the back of the mind, where we live now.”

“I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.”