Say it, no ideas but in things - nothing but the blank faces of the houses and cylindrical trees bent, forked by preconception and accident - split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained - secret - into the body of the light!

No opinion can be trusted; even the facts may be nothing but a printer's error.

The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.

Say it, no ideas but in things - nothing but the blank faces of the houses and cylindrical trees bent, forked by preconception and accident - split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained - secret - into the body of the light!

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Your knees are a southern breeze.

First we have to see. Or first we have to be taught to see. We have to be taught to see here, because here is everywhere, related to everywhere else, and if we don't see, hear, taste, smell and feel in this place - not only will we never know anything but the world of sense will be by that much diminished everywhere.

Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of angels.