We say God and the imagination are one . . .How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Poetry is a finikin thing of airThat lives uncertainly and not for longYet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.

the lion sleeps in the sun.its nose on its paws.it can kill a man.

I still feel the need of some imperishable bliss.

Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagines are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.

The poet is the priest of the invisible.

You know that the nucleus of a time is not The poet but the poem, the growth of the mind Of the world, the heroic effort to live expressed As victory. The poet does not speak in ruins Nor stand there making orotund consolations. He shares the confusions of intelligence.

At evening casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.