Poetry is a very complex art.... It is an art of pure sound bound in through an art of arbitrary and conventional symbols.

Fit for kings, formal gardens afford an earthly Elysium and the odd impression that we mere men might actually control nature for a time.

Man is an over-complicated organism. If he is doomed to extinction he will die out for want of simplicity.

People find ideas a bore because they do not distinguish between live ones and stuffed ones on a shelf.

The eyes of this dead lady speak to me For here was love, was not to be drowned out. And here desire, not to be kissed away. The eyes of this dead lady speak to me.

The book shd. be a ball of light in one's hand.

'Tis not need we know our every thought Or see the work shop where each mask is wrought Wherefrom we view the world of box and pit, Careless of wear, just so the mask shall fit And serve our jape's turn for a night or two.