How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?

It is the belief and not the god that counts.

Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.

I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself; And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

The point of vision and desire are the same.

Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.

Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.