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.

God and the imagination are one.

Thought tends to collect in pools.

Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.

The imagination is the liberty of the mind It is intrpeid and eager and the extreme of its achievement lies in abstraction.

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

To a large extent, the problems of poets are the problems of painters, and poets must often turn to the literature of painting for a discussion of their own problems.