The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.
We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.
It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation; and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.