To lose sensibility, to see what one sees, As if sight had not its own miraculous thrift, To hear only what one hears, one meaning alone, As if the paradise of meaning ceased To be paradise, it is this to be destitute.
The whole race is a poet that writes down / The eccentric propositions of its fate.
One ought not to hoard culture. It should be adapted and infused into society as a leaven. Liberality of culture does not mean illiberality of its benefits.
Of the Surface of Things In my room, the world is beyond my understanding; But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four Hills and a cloud.
Civilization must be destroyed. The hairy saints of the North have earned this crumb by their complaints.
It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
It is poverty's speech that seeks us out the most. It is older than the oldest speech of Rome. This is the tragic accent of the scene.
This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out Of dirt . . . It is not possible for the moon To blot this with its dove-winged blendings.
How red the rose that is the soldier
Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.
After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption.
It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
Words of the world are the life of the world.
God is gracious to some very peculiar people.
Soldier, there is a war between the mind And sky, between thought and day and night. It is For that the poet is always in the sun, Patches the moon together in his room To his Virgilian cadences, up down, Up down. It is a war that never ends.
The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.
The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other.
Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
The subject matter... is not that collection of solid, static objects extended in space but the life that is lived in the scene that it composes.
Life consists Of propositions about life. The human Revery is a solitude in which We compose these propositions, torn by dreams, By the terrible incantations of defeats And by the fear that the defeats and the dreams are one. The whole race is a poet that writes down The eccentric propositions of its fate.
A diary is more or less the work of a man of clay whose hands are clumsy and in whose eyes there is no light.
Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
The winter is made and you have to bear it, The winter web, the winter woven, wind and wind, For all the thoughts of summer that go with it In the mind, pupa of straw, moppet of rags.
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