Life is the elimination of what is dead.

Imagination is the will of things. . . .

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

The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.

Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.

Anything is beautiful if you say it is.

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