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.

They said, 'You have a blue guitar, / You do not play things as they are.' / The man replied, 'Things as they are / Are changed upon the blue guitar.'

The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.

An old argument with me is that the true religious force in the world is not the church, but the world itself: the mysterious callings of Nature and our responses.

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

Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.

For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.