To a large extent, the problems of poets are the problems of painters, and poets must often turn to the literature of painting for a discussion of their own problems.

Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.

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

Money is a kind of poetry.

The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.

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.

...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.