All poetry is experimental poetry.

Thought tends to collect in pools.

Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.

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.

Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.

It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.

In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.