She says, "But in contentment I still feel The need for imperishable bliss." Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams And our desires. Is there no change of death in paradise? Does ripe fruit never fall? or do the boughs Hang always heavy in that perfect sky, Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth, With rivers like our own that seek for seas They never find, the same receding shores That never touch with inarticulate pang?

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.

Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.

We live in an old chaos of the sun.

Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.

God is in me or else is not at all.

The point of vision and desire are the same.