Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.
The point of vision and desire are the same.
The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.
God is in me or else is not at all.
Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.