...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.

One must read poetry with one's nerves.

Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.

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.

Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.

How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?

The imagination is the liberty of the mind It is intrpeid and eager and the extreme of its achievement lies in abstraction.