Most people read poetry listening for echoes because the echoes are familiar to them. They wade through it the way a boy wades through water, feeling with his toes for the bottom: The echoes are the bottom.

It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.

Of the Surface of Things In my room, the world is beyond my understanding; But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four Hills and a cloud.

To regard the imagination as metaphysics is to think of it as part of life, and to think of it as part of life is to realize the extent of artifice. We live in the mind.

The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.