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

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

Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.

The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.

The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real. When it adheres to the unreal and intensifies what is unreal, while its first effect may be extraordinary, that effect is the maximum effect that it will ever have.

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

In European thought in general, as contrasted with American, vigor, life and originality have a kind of easy, professional utterance. American -- on the other hand, is expressed in an eager amateurish way. A European gives a sense of scope, of survey, of consideration. An American is strained, sensational. One is artistic gold; the other is bullion.