At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.

The word is the making of the world

The genuine artist is never 'true to life.' He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.

I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.

To name an object is to deprive a poem of three-fourths of its pleasure, which consists in a little-by-little guessing game; the ideal is to suggest.

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice

Thought tends to collect in pools.