Those who talk of the bible as a monument of English prose are merely admiring it as a monument over the grave of Christianity.

I take as metaphysical poetry that in which what is ordinarily apprehensible only by thought is brought within the grasp of feeling, or that in which what is ordinarily only felt is transformed into thought without ceasing to be feeling.

The usual dog about the town is much inclined to play the clown.

And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

For you know only a heap of broken images

Turning Wearily, as one would turn to nod goodbye to Rochefoucauld, If the street were time and he as the end of the street.

We had the experience, but we missed the meaning.