You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.

The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.

Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.

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

A violent order is disorder; and a great disorder is an order. These two things are one.

The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.

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.