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

Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.

Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.

The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.

The poet is the priest of the invisible.

in the presence of extraordinary actuality, consciousness takes the place of imagination.

A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.