The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.

The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.

The point of vision and desire are the same.

You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.

Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.

The poet's function is to make his imagination . . . become the light in the mind of others. His role, in short, is to help people to live their lives.

All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.