The instant trivial as it is is all we have unless-unless things the imagination feeds upon, the scent of the rose, startle us anew.

I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it.

Poe gives the sense for the first time in America, that literature is serious, not a matter of courtesy but of truth.

Outside, the north wind, coming and passing, swelling and dying, lifts the frozen sand drives it a-rattle against the lidless windows and we may dear sit stroking the cat stroking the cat and smiling sleepily, prrrr.

The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.

It was the love of love, the love of swallows up all else, a grateful love, a love of natural, of people, of animals, a love ingengering gentleness and goodness that moved meand that I saw in you

The Moon, the dried weeds and the Pleiades - Seven feet tall the dark, dried weed stalks make a part of the night a red lace on the milky blue sky