...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.
The mind can never be satisfied.
The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.
God is in me or else is not at all.
The point of vision and desire are the same.
The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.