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

Poetry is the scholar's art.

We live in an old chaos of the sun.

What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.

An old argument with me is that the true religious force in the world is not the church, but the world itself: the mysterious callings of Nature and our responses.

How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?

I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself; And there I found myself more truly and more strange.