It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.

It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.

A soul trembling to sit by a hearth so bright, To exist again, it’s enough if I borrow from Your lips the breath of my name you murmur all night.

I have made a long enough descent into the void to speak with certainty. There is nothing but beauty--and beauty has only one perfect expression, Poetry. All the rest is a lie.

The pure work implies the disappearance of the poet as speaker, who hands over to the words.

Everything that is sacred and that wishes to remain so must envelop itself in mystery.

In reading, a lonely quiet concert is given to our minds; all our mental faculties will be present in this symphonic exaltation.