One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.
Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
The poet represents the mind in the act of defending us against itself.
I do not know which to prefer - The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
The purpose of poetry is to make life complete in itself.
Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.
To a large extent, the problems of poets are the problems of painters, and poets must often turn to the literature of painting for a discussion of their own problems.
As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
An old argument with me is that the true religious force in the world is not the church, but the world itself: the mysterious callings of Nature and our responses.
Most people read poetry listening for echoes because the echoes are familiar to them. They wade through it the way a boy wades through water, feeling with his toes for the bottom: The echoes are the bottom.
Imagination is the will of things. . . .
The great poems of heaven and hell have been written and the great poem of earth remains to be written.
The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.
The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.
Realism is a corruption of reality.
To live in the world but outside of existing conceptions of it.
If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.
The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real. When it adheres to the unreal and intensifies what is unreal, while its first effect may be extraordinary, that effect is the maximum effect that it will ever have.
The greatest poverty is not to live In a physical world, to feel that one's desire Is too difficult to tell from despair.
The imagination is man's power over nature.
The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends.
The night Makes everything grotesque. Is it because Night is the nature of man's interior world?
Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
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