Nothing could be more inappropriate to American literature than its English source since the Americans are not British in sensibility.

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

The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.

Of the Surface of Things In my room, the world is beyond my understanding; But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four Hills and a cloud.

The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.

It is the sea that whitens the roof. The sea drifts through the winter air. It is the sea that the north wind makes. The sea is in the falling snow.

Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.