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.
The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
Already the new-born children interpret love In the voices of mothers.
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.
At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
The fire burns as the novel taught it how.
...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.
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?
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.
Thought tends to collect in pools.
The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
We say God and the imagination are one... How high that highest candle lights the dark.
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.
I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me.
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