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

Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.

Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.

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.

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.

Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.

The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.