Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood's edge

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.

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.

As the rain falls so does your love bathe every open object of the world

By listening to his language of his locality the poet begins to learn his craft. It is his function to lift, by use of imagination and the language he hears, the material conditions and appearances of his environment to the sphere of the intelligence where they will have new currency.

Death will be too late to bring us aid.

To refine, to clarify, to intensify that eternal moment in which we alone live there is but a single force the imagination.