One must have a mind of winter to regard the frost and the boughs of the pine trees, crusted with snow, And have been cold a long time, to behold the junipers, shagged with ice, the spruces, rough in the distant glitter of the January sun, and not to think of any misery in the sound of the wind, in the sound of a few leaves, which is the sound of the land, full of the same wind, blowing in the same bare place for the listener, who listens in the snow, and, nothing herself, beholds nothing that is not there, and the nothing that is.

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

We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.

You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.

Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.

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

Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.