Poetry is the scholar's art.

I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.

After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.

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

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

Frogs eat Butterflies, Snakes eat Frogs, Hogs eat Snakes, Men eat Hogs.

Success as a result of industry is a peasant's ideal.