Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.

How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice

I measure myself Against a tall tree I find that I am much taller, For I reach right up to the sun With my eye; And I reach to the shore of the sea With my ear. Nevertheless, I dislike The way the ants crawl In and out of my shadow.

The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.

As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.

The genuine artist is never 'true to life.' He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.