Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.

Of the Surface of Things In my room, the world is beyond my understanding; But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four Hills and a cloud.

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice

Poetry is a means of redemption.

The poet's function is to make his imagination . . . become the light in the mind of others. His role, in short, is to help people to live their lives.

The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.

It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place, It has to face the man of the time.