The poem must resist the intelligenceAlmost successfully.

Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.

Let be be finale of seem.The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.

After the leaves have fallen, we returnTo a plain sense of things. It is as ifWe had come to an end of the imagination,Inanimate in an inert savoir.

A pear should come to the table popped with juice,Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On termsLike these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.

The way through the worldIs more difficult to find than the way beyond it.

A violent order is disorder; and a great disorder is an order.These two things are one.

Poetry is the scholar's art.