No ideas but in things.

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.

What power has love but forgiveness? In other words by its intervention what has been done can be undone. What good is it otherwise?

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.

A new music is a new mind.

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

History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.