“I am moved by fancies that are curled, around these images and cling, the notion of some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing.”

“I am moved by fancies that are curledAround these images, and cling:The notion of some infinitely gentleInfinitely suffering thing.Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;The worlds revolve like ancient womenGathering fuel in vacant lots.”

“For you know only a heap of broken images”

“Lord, I am not worthyLord, I am not worthybut speak the word only.”

“We must learn to suffer more.”

“Fading, fading: strength beyond hope and despair climbing the third stair. Lord, I am not worthy Lord, I am not worthy but speak the word only.”

“And I have known the eyes already, known them all—The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?And how should I presume?”