The imagination is one of the forces of nature.
Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.
It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.
I thought how utterly we have forsaken the Earth, in the sense of excluding it from our thoughts. There are but few who consider its physical hugeness, its rough enormity. It is still a disparate monstrosity, full of solitudes, barrens, wilds. It still dwarfs, terrifies, crushes. The rivers still roar, the mountains still crash, the winds still shatter. Man is an affair of cities. His gardens, orchards and fields are mere scrapings. Somehow, however, he has managed to shut out the face of the giant from his windows. But the giant is there, nevertheless.
Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.
The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.
The world about us would be desolate except for the world within us.
Realism is a corruption of reality.
Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass.
True villains are extremely photogenic.
It's not always easy to tell the difference between thinking and looking out of the window.
A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words.
The poet is the priest of the invisible.
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.
All the great things have been denied and we live in an intricacy of new and local mythologies, political, economic, poetic, which are asserted with an ever-enlarging incoherence.
Anything is beautiful if you say it is.
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The poet's function is to make his imagination . . . become the light in the mind of others. His role, in short, is to help people to live their lives.
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.
Disillusion is the last illusion.
A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
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