Thought tends to collect in pools.
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.
The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
The reading of a poem should be an experience. Its writing must be all the more so.
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.