After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

It gives a man character as a poet to have a daily contact with a job. I doubt whether I've lost a thing by leading an exceedingly regular and disciplined life.

The poet's function is to make his imagination . . . become the light in the mind of others. His role, in short, is to help people to live their lives.

Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.

The fire burns as the novel taught it how.

Imagination is the will of things. . . .