Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
The fire burns as the novel taught it how.
A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
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.
It can never be satisfied, the mind, never.
One cannot spend one’s time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.
We say God and the imagination are one… How high that highest candle lights the dark.
A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.