I know where the half-dead hug their last secrets: the fungi-focus, inertia's children; how they stay there-- limp as drenched insects-- so happy with themselves. 
You're a living example that the mystics were right: we must escape the ego. 
In spite of all the paraphernalia for keeping things together, how haphazard  life is, and the judgements of time. 
The spiritual growth's an oscillatory thing: we move by shivers in the world's tumultuous spine. 
I have begun, again, my long training as an enemy of contemporary custom. 
Alas, he's degenerated into a civilized man. 
He hasn't got time in his life for a dog or a cat. All he's got room for is improvement. 
To be less than you are is so easy: even a child needs no lesson in this. 
Civilization is over rated: but there isn't anything much else. 
To each his own labyrinth. 
Self-knowledge: the supreme, perhaps the only, good? 
I'm here, where time stares. 
I can't fly, except into the wind. 
I'd live among the fish if I could. 
I live in a half-night, outside a dream, yet not within life. My dreams don't understand me. 
Both inner and outer reality the same: the final secret... 
May your feet imitate heaven. 
Dust shall be, shall see. 
I believe, even in sleep. 
--from 'The Right to Say Maybe'; Theodore Roethke (assembled by David Wagoner)

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