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.

Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.

The fire burns as the novel taught it how.

It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.

It is the sea that whitens the roof. The sea drifts through the winter air. It is the sea that the north wind makes. The sea is in the falling snow.

If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.