Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.

It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place, It has to face the man of the time.

A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.

They said, 'You have a blue guitar, / You do not play things as they are.' / The man replied, 'Things as they are / Are changed upon the blue guitar.'

The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.

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

God is in me or else is not at all.