For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
The poet is the priest of the invisible.
Civilization must be destroyed. The hairy saints of the North have earned this crumb by their complaints.
Next to love is the desire for love.
Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies; the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.