Upon the bank, she stood In the cool Of spent emotions. She felt, among the leaves, The dew Of old devotions. - Wallace Stevens

A diary is more or less the work of a man of clay whose hands are clumsy and in whose eyes there is no light.

Like a page of music, like an upper air, Like a momentary color, in which swans Were seraphs, were saints, were changing essences. <p> The west wind was the music, the motion, the force To which the swans curveted, a will to change, A will to make iris frettings on the blank.

He is and may be but oh! He is, he is, This foundling of the infected past, so bright, So moving in the manner of his hand. Yet look not at his colored eyes. Give him No names. Dismiss him from your images. The hot of him is purest in the heart.