Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.

Make the visible a little hard to see.

People ought to like poetry the way a child likes snow & they would if poets wrote it.

At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.

I certainly do not exist from nine to six, when I am at the office.

Imagination is the will of things. . . .

In the same way, you were happy in spring, With the half colors of quarter-things, The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds, The single bird, the obscure moon- The obscure moon lighting an obscure world Of thing that would never be quite expressed, Where you yourself were never quite yourself And did not want nor have to be.