I measure myself Against a tall tree I find that I am much taller, For I reach right up to the sun With my eye; And I reach to the shore of the sea With my ear. Nevertheless, I dislike The way the ants crawl In and out of my shadow.

After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.

Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.

The reading of a poem should be an experience. Its writing must be all the more so.

Poetry is a means of redemption.

Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.

Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.