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

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

Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.

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

New York is a field of tireless and antagonistic interests undoubtedly fascinating but horribly unreal. Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.

I still feel the need of some imperishable bliss.

The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.