Poetry is a means of redemption.

The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.

We live in an old chaos of the sun.

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

Poetry is poetry, and one's objective as a poet is to achieve poetry precisely as one's objective in music is to achieve music.

To name an object is to deprive a poem of three-fourths of its pleasure, which consists in a little-by-little guessing game; the ideal is to suggest.

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