Money is a kind of poetry.
A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
The imagination is man's power over nature.
I can't make head or tail of Life. Love is a fine thing, Art is a fine thing, Nature is a fine thing; but the average human mind and spirit are confusing beyond measure. Sometimes I think that all our learning is the little learning of the maxim. To laugh at a Roman awe-stricken in a sacred grove is to laugh at something today.
One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.
One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.
Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!
Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.
Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.
The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.
The fire burns as the novel taught it how.
The genuine artist is never "true to life." He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.
Accuracy of observation is the equivalent of accuracy of thinking.
After the final no there comes a yes and on that yes the future of the world hangs.
As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.
I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections, Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling, Or just after.
If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.
If some really acute observer made as much of egotism as Freud has made of sex, people would forget a good deal about sex and find the explanation for everything in egotism.
In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.