The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.
The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.
Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
The purpose of poetry is to make life complete in itself.
The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
Poetry increases the feeling for reality.