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

People ought to like poetry the way a child likes snow & they would if poets wrote it.

Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.

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

One must read poetry with one's nerves.

I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me.

Thought tends to collect in pools.