How red the rose that is the soldier
Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.
The purpose of poetry is to make life complete in itself.
Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.
Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.