Already the new-born children interpret love In the voices of mothers.
Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.
Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world.
It is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea.
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.
My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called "standing people. . . ."
At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.
The fire burns as the novel taught it how.
One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
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.
The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.
The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.
It is time that beats in the breast and it is time That batters against the mind, silent and proud, The mind that knows it is destroyed by time.
What is one man among so many men? What are so many men in such a world? Can one man think one thing and think it long? Can one man be one thing and be it long?
I can't make head or tail of Life. Love is a fine thing, Art is a fine thing, Nature is a fine thing; but the average human mind and spirit are confusing beyond measure. Sometimes I think that all our learning is the little learning of the maxim. To laugh at a Roman awe-stricken in a sacred grove is to laugh at something today.
Tinsel in February, tinsel in August. There are things in a man besides his reason.
Tell X that speech is not dirty silence Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier.
For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
The mind is the terriblest force in the world, father, Because, in chief, it, only, can defend Against itself. At its mercy, we depend Upon it.
We say God and the imagination are one... How high that highest candle lights the dark.
It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation; and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.
I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me.
How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.
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