Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.

I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.

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

It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.

Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.

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.

One must read poetry with one's nerves.