The heavy trees, The grunting, shuffling branches, the robust, The nocturnal, the antique, the blue-green pines Deepen the feelings to inhuman depths.
It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
Most poets who have little or nothing to say are concerned primarily with the way in which they say it ... if it is true that the style of a poem and the poem itself are one, ... it may be ... that the poets who have little or nothing to say are, or will be, the poets that matter.
A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.
...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.
What is there in life except one's ideas, Good air, good friend, what is there in life?
After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.
Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
the windy sky Cries out a literate despair.
behold The approach of him whom none believes, Whom all believe that all believe, A pagan in a varnished car.
One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
In European thought in general, as contrasted with American, vigor, life and originality have a kind of easy, professional utterance. American -- on the other hand, is expressed in an eager amateurish way. A European gives a sense of scope, of survey, of consideration. An American is strained, sensational. One is artistic gold; the other is bullion.
Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.
Nothing could be more inappropriate to American literature than its English source since the Americans are not British in sensibility.
I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
There is not any haunt of prophecy, Nor any old chimera of the grave, Neither the golden underground, nor isle Melodious, where spirits gat them home, Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured As April's green endures; or will endure Like her remembrance of awakened birds, Or her desire for June and evening, tipped By the consummation of the swallow's wings.
To lose sensibility, to see what one sees, As if sight had not its own miraculous thrift, To hear only what one hears, one meaning alone, As if the paradise of meaning ceased To be paradise, it is this to be destitute.
The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
The whole race is a poet that writes down / The eccentric propositions of its fate.
One ought not to hoard culture. It should be adapted and infused into society as a leaven. Liberality of culture does not mean illiberality of its benefits.
Of the Surface of Things In my room, the world is beyond my understanding; But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four Hills and a cloud.
It is poverty's speech that seeks us out the most. It is older than the oldest speech of Rome. This is the tragic accent of the scene.
It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
Civilization must be destroyed. The hairy saints of the North have earned this crumb by their complaints.
Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
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