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.
Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies; the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.
We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.
Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.
Union of the weakest develops strength not wisdom. Can all men, together, avenge one of the leaves that have fallen in autumn? But the wise man avenges by building his city in snow.
A pear should come to the table popped with juice, Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On terms Like these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.
Frogs eat Butterflies, Snakes eat Frogs, Hogs eat Snakes, Men eat Hogs.
If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice
In the same way, you were happy in spring, With the half colors of quarter-things, The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds, The single bird, the obscure moon- The obscure moon lighting an obscure world Of thing that would never be quite expressed, Where you yourself were never quite yourself And did not want nor have to be.
The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.
You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.
Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.
What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.
Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.
Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.
Man is an eternal sophomore.
The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world.
Already the new-born children interpret love In the voices of mothers.
Day after day, throughout the winter, We hardened ourselves to live by bluest reason In a world of wind and frost.
It is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea.
My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called "standing people. . . ."
Two things of opposite natures seem to depend / One on another, as Logos depends / On Eros, day on night, the imagined On the real. / This is the origin of change.
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