Poetry is the scholar's art.

in the presence of extraordinary actuality, consciousness takes the place of imagination.

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.

The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.

One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.

The word is the making of the world

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