A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words.

The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.

Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.

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.

At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.

Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.

It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.