The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
in the presence of extraordinary actuality, consciousness takes the place of imagination.
For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.