The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.

Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.

Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.

What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.

Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.

One must have a mind of winter to regard the frost and the boughs of the pine trees, crusted with snow, And have been cold a long time, to behold the junipers, shagged with ice, the spruces, rough in the distant glitter of the January sun, and not to think of any misery in the sound of the wind, in the sound of a few leaves, which is the sound of the land, full of the same wind, blowing in the same bare place for the listener, who listens in the snow, and, nothing herself, beholds nothing that is not there, and the nothing that is.

All poetry is experimental poetry.