People ought to like poetry the way a child likes snow & they would if poets wrote it.

Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.

For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

They said, 'You have a blue guitar, / You do not play things as they are.' / The man replied, 'Things as they are / Are changed upon the blue guitar.'

The mind can never be satisfied.

The genuine artist is never 'true to life.' He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.

As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.