“From the shadow of domes in the city of domes,A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your roomAnd made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking upFrom your book, saw it the m...”

“...Then a man turnedAnd said to me: "Although I love the past, the dark of it,The weight of it teaching us nothing, the loss of it, the allOf it asking for nothing, I will love the twenty-first cen...”

“There is no end to what we can learn. The book out thereTells us as much, and was never written with us in mind.”

“ And into the close and mirrored catacombs of sleepWe'll fall, and there in the faded light discover the bones,The dust, the bitter remains of someone who might have been Had we not...”

“What we desire, more than a season or weather, is the comfortOf being strangers, at least to ourselves.”

“No voice comes from outer space, from the folds of dust and carpets of wind to tell us that this is the way it was meant to happen, that if only we knew how long the ruins would last we would never...”

“Time slips by; our sorrows do not turn into poems,And what is invisible stays that way.”

“Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?”

“Remembrance and reflection how allied!What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide!”

“Don't be afraid of poetry.”

“Im not a woman you bring home to Mother, pick out china patterns with, or Mary forefend, breed. Ive seen a chunk of the universe, true, but theres still so much more to see. I doubt Ill ever cure t...”

“My hope, my heaven, my trust must be,My gentle guide, in following thee.”

“Amory took to writing poetry on spring afternoons, in the gardens of the big estates near Princeton, while swans made effective atmosphere in the artificial pools, and slow clouds sailed harmonious...”