[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.

Your thorns are the best part of you.

Poetry is all nouns and verbs.

We prove, we do not explain, our birth.

Only imagination that towers can reproduce evanescence and render rigidity flexible.

It is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing.

When we think we don't like art it is because it is artificial art.