The imperfect is our paradise.

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

A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.

Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.

It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.

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.

The imagination is the liberty of the mind It is intrpeid and eager and the extreme of its achievement lies in abstraction.