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

Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.

Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.

A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words.

We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.

In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.

God and the imagination are one.