The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.

The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.

The mind is smaller than the eye.

Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.

It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation; and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.

The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.

Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.