Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.
The sea Severs not only lands but also selves.
The poet represents the mind in the act of defending us against itself.
The figures of the past go cloaked. They walk in mist and rain and snow And go, go slowly, but they go.
Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
Poetry is the scholar's art.
Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.
Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood.
Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.
It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
It is the sea that whitens the roof. The sea drifts through the winter air. It is the sea that the north wind makes. The sea is in the falling snow.
How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?
We live in an old chaos of the sun.
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.
We say This changes and that changes. Thus the constant Violets, doves, girls, bees and hyacinths Are inconstant objects of inconstant cause In a universe of inconstancy.
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.
God is in me or else is not at all.
The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
To regard the imagination as metaphysics is to think of it as part of life, and to think of it as part of life is to realize the extent of artifice. We live in the mind.
Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
The chrysanthemums' astringent fragrance comes Each year to disguise the clanking mechanism Of machine within machine within machine.
The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
The mind can never be satisfied.
The point of vision and desire are the same.
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