Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.

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.

Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.

Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.

Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.

Realism is a corruption of reality.

A violent order is disorder; and a great disorder is an order. These two things are one.