The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.

Poetry has to be something more than a conception of the mind. It has to be a revelation of nature. Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.

You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.

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

It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.

Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.

The fire burns as the novel taught it how.