Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.

Poetry is the scholar's art.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.

It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.

Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.

The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real. When it adheres to the unreal and intensifies what is unreal, while its first effect may be extraordinary, that effect is the maximum effect that it will ever have.

The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.