And as to experience-well, think how little some good poets have had, or how much some bad ones have.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house.

Heaven is not like flying or swimming, but has something to do with blackness and a strong glare.

I am sorry for people who can't write letters. But I suspect also that you and I ... love to write them because it's kind of like working without really doing it.

Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too?

Ports are necessities, like postage stamps or soap, but they seldom seem to care what impressions they make.

What one seems to want in art, in experiencing it, is the same thing that is necessary for its creation, a self-forgetful, perfectly useless concentration.