Humankind can't stand too much reality.

Poetry should help, not only to refine the language of the time, but to prevent it from changing too rapidly.

Ash on an old man's sleeve / Is all the ash the burnt roses leave, / Dust in the air suspended / Marks the place where a story ended.

This is the feeling for syllable and rhythm, penetrating far below the conscious levels of thought and feeling, invigorating every word.

Now that the lilacs are in bloom She has a bowl of lilacs in her room

Redeem the time. Redeem the unread vision of a higher dream.

We know too much, and are convinced of too little. Our literature is a substitute for religion, and so is our religion.