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.

We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.

As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.

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

We live in an old chaos of the sun.

Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.

All poetry is experimental poetry.