We say God and the imagination are one . . .
How high that highest candle lights the dark.
Poetry is a finikin thing of air
That lives uncertainly and not for long
Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.
It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.
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