It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.

The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.

The mind is smaller than the eye.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.

One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.

In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.

Poetry is the scholar's art.