The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.

I am what is around me.

At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.

The mind is smaller than the eye.

Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.

New York is a field of tireless and antagonistic interests undoubtedly fascinating but horribly unreal. Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.

How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?