Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.
[The] whirlwind fife-and-drum of the storm bends the salt marsh grass, disturbs stars in the sky and the star on the steeple; it is a privilege to see so much confusion.
The heart that gives, gathers.
If we can't be cordial to these creatures' fleece, I think that we deserve to freeze.
If technique is of no interest to a writer, I doubt that the writer is an artist.
The weak overcomes its/ menace, the strong over-/comes itself.