We live in an old chaos of the sun.

One must read poetry with one's nerves.

If some really acute observer made as much of egotism as Freud has made of sex, people would forget a good deal about sex and find the explanation for everything in egotism.

How red the rose that is the soldier

Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.

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

For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.