God is gracious to some very peculiar people.

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.

Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies; the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.

Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.

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

Poetry is a response to the daily necessity of getting the world right.

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