The imperfect is our paradise.
A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.
One must read poetry with one's nerves.
Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.
Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
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.