The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.

After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption.

Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.

Life is not free from its forms.

Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.

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

It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.