The only realism in art is of the imagination.

It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.

It is not fair to be old, to put on a brown sweater.

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

What "love" is I don't know if it's not the response of our deepest natures to one another.

Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.

O Marvelous! What new configuration will come next? I am bewildered with multiplicity.