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

Man has survived hitherto because he was too ignorant to know how to realise his wishes- Now that he can realise them, he must either change them or perish

There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.

You have the chicken, the hen, and the rooster. The chicken goes with the hen So who is having sex with the rooster?

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

But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It is directly, that is, of the senses, and since the senses do not exist without an object for their employment all art is necessarily objective. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents.

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.