No ideas but in things.

A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.

[History is] a tyranny over the souls of the dead - and so the imagination of the living.

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind.

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

A new world is only a new mind.

Dissonance / (if you are interested) / leads to discovery.