Poetry is the scholar's art.

All the great things have been denied and we live in an intricacy of new and local mythologies, political, economic, poetic, which are asserted with an ever-enlarging incoherence.

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

Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.

Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.

Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.

The consolations of space are nameless things. It was after the neurosis of winter. It was In the genius of summer that they blew up The statue of Jove among the boomy clouds. It took all day to quieten the sky And then to refill its emptiness again.