'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.

Artists are the antennae of the race, but the bullet-headed many will never learn to trust the great artists.

Quiet this metal! Let the manes put off their terror, let them put off their aqueous bodies with fire. Let them assume the milk-white bodies of agate. Let them draw together the bones of the metal.

Poetry is a language pared down to its essentials.

America, my country, is almost a continent and hardly yet a nation.

Real education must ultimately be limited to men who insist on knowing, the rest is mere sheep-herding.

As for literature It gives no man a sinecure. And no one knows, at sight, a masterpiece. And give up verse, my boy, There's nothing in it.