Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.

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

To name an object is to deprive a poem of three-fourths of its pleasure, which consists in a little-by-little guessing game; the ideal is to suggest.

All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.

Union of the weakest develops strength not wisdom. Can all men, together, avenge one of the leaves that have fallen in autumn? But the wise man avenges by building his city in snow.

Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.

I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself; And there I found myself more truly and more strange.