O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,
The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant
— T. S. Eliot, “East Coker
The river is within us, the sea is all about us
— T. S. Eliot, “The Dry Salvages
Good night air glows
under the quantum
quiet fury

of these southern
— Cristiana Baik, “Semi-Fluorescence
Although the rain is neutral, although the rain is impersonal, it becomes for me a haunting and nostalgic sound.
… the jasmine season warms our blood.
— W. B. Yeats, “The Gift of Harun al-Rashid
Here and there the night is
pulling up its collar and walking away.
I can almost make out the faint odor of stars.
I don’t know whose shadow has taken the place of my own.
It is the bird with one wing that is singing my song.
— Richard Jackson, from “Unauthorized Autobiography,” in Heartwall (University of Massachusetts Press, 2000)
They stay in my mind, these beautiful people,
or anyway beautiful people to me, of which
there are so many. You, and you, and you,
whom I had the fortune to meet, or maybe
missed. Love, love, love, it was the
core of my life, from which, of course, comes
the word for the heart. And, oh, have I mentioned
that some of them were men and some were women
and some — now carry my revelation with you —
were trees. Or places. Or music flying above
the names of their makers. Or clouds, or the sun
which was the first, and the best, the most
loyal for certain, who looked so faithfully into
my eyes, every morning. So I imagine
such love of the world — its fervency, its shining, its
innocence and hunger to give of itself — I imagine
this is how it began.
— Mary Oliver, from New And Selected Poems 
I am part of the sun as my eye is of me. That I am part of the earth my feet know perfectly, and my blood is part of the sea.
— D.H. Lawrence 

The clouds do not bother us
when we look for heaven. Always

we find a faint, veiled outline
like the ship on the horizon,

a dark memory
on the edge. The sea moves in waves,

garbling the language.
We’ve been a great distance

and the darkness has rolled back
enough to be honest.

— Russell Evatt, opening lines to “[The clouds do not bother us],” burntdistrict (vol. 2, no. 1, Winter 2013)
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love for me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.
Sylvia Plath, “Tulips,” from Ariel: The Restored Edition