Most people read poetry listening for echoes because the echoes are familiar to them. They wade through it the way a boy wades through water, feeling with his toes for the bottom: The echoes are the bottom.
Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
In the world of words, the imagination is one of the forces of nature.
One’s ignorance is one’s chief asset.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.
As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.
Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!