Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.

Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.

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.

God is gracious to some very peculiar people.

In the same way, you were happy in spring, With the half colors of quarter-things, The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds, The single bird, the obscure moon- The obscure moon lighting an obscure world Of thing that would never be quite expressed, Where you yourself were never quite yourself And did not want nor have to be.

The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.

The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.