Nature is a haunted house--but Art--is a house that tries to be haunted.

Inebriate of Air — am I —And Debauchee of Dew —Reeling — thro endless summer days —From Inns of Molten Blue —

This world is just a little place, just the red in the sky, before the sun rises, so let us keep fast hold of hands, that when the birds begin, none of us be missing.

A little road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly. If town it have, beyond itself, ’T is that I cannot say; I only sigh,—no vehicle Bears me along that way.

To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie— True Poems flee—

In the name of the bee And of the butterfly And of the breeze, amen!

The career of flowers differs from ours only inaudibleness.

What will the solemn Hemlock- What will the Oak tree say?

A little madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King, But God be with the Clown, Who ponders this tremendous scene-- This whole experiment in green, As if it were his own!