I, too, dislike it. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it, after all, a place for the genuine.
Poetry, that is to say the poetic, is a primal necessity.
You're not free until you've been made captive by supreme belief.
The heart that gives, gathers.
he who gives quickly gives twice / in nothing so much as in a letter.
[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.