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

Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.

Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.

Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.

The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.

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.

Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.