We live in an old chaos of the sun.

Success as a result of industry is a peasant's ideal.

A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.

Poetry is a means of redemption.

One must have a mind of winter to regard the frost and the boughs of the pine trees, crusted with snow, And have been cold a long time, to behold the junipers, shagged with ice, the spruces, rough in the distant glitter of the January sun, and not to think of any misery in the sound of the wind, in the sound of a few leaves, which is the sound of the land, full of the same wind, blowing in the same bare place for the listener, who listens in the snow, and, nothing herself, beholds nothing that is not there, and the nothing that is.

One's ignorance is one's chief asset.

It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place, It has to face the man of the time.