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

It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place, It has to face the man of the time.

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

Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.

I am what is around me.

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.

It gives a man character as a poet to have a daily contact with a job. I doubt whether I've lost a thing by leading an exceedingly regular and disciplined life.