The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.

You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.

Poetry is poetry, and one's objective as a poet is to achieve poetry precisely as one's objective in music is to achieve music.

The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book.

The imperfect is our paradise.

One's ignorance is one's chief asset.

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.