A poem is a small machine made of words.

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.

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

Most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see them

Say it, no ideas but in things - nothing but the blank faces of the houses and cylindrical trees bent, forked by preconception and accident - split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained - secret - into the body of the light!

Death will be too late to bring us aid.

It's a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!