. . . We love fog becauseit shifts old anomalies into the elementssurrounding them. It gives relief from a way of seeing

There's an old saying that applies to me: you can't lose a game if you don't play the game. (Act 1, scene 4)

O dear Himalaya...why are you so amazing, can I kiss your peak or can I just let your silence speak...O dear Himalaya...

On the shining yards of heavenSee a wider dawn unfurled. . . . The eternal slaves of beautyAre the masters of the world.

It is the taste of cut steps, bloody fingerprints. Of healed books, smiles on fresh tulips. Of longing and sweet fatigue.

And round about there is a rabbleOf the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.They shall inherit the earth.

iedis liek man galvu uz plecaskatu maigu kā tāsies zinu tu esi noguris cilvēktu vairs mani nevajāsi

A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

Take you example by this thing,/ And yield to each his right,/ Lest God with such like miserye/ Your wicked minds requite

unless you're the lead dog the view never changes...mercy out does justice every time:always find your way back home

When she left me I stood out in the thunderstorm, hoping to be destroyed by lightning. It missed, first left, then right.

There may be losses too great to understandThat rove after you and--faint and terrible-- rip unknown through your hand.

We are not concerned with the very poor. They are unthinkable, and only to be approached by the statistician or the poet.

Make me, dear Lord, polite and kind, To everyone, I pray.And may I ask you how you find Yourself, dear Lord, today?

Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.