The mind is smaller than the eye.

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.

Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.

God is in me or else is not at all.

Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.

The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.

Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.