It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation; and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.

...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.

Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world

We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.

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

After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.

Life is not free from its forms.