"It is the sea that whitens the roof. The sea drifts through the winter air. It is the sea that the north wind makes. The sea is in the falling snow."
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"It is the sea that whitens the roof. The sea drifts through the winter air. It is the sea that the north wind makes. The sea is in the falling snow."
"Poetry is the statement of a relation between a man and the world"
"A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have."
"Most poets who have little or nothing to say are concerned primarily with the way in which they say it ... if it is true that the style of a poem and the poem itself are one, ... it may be ... that the poets who have little or nothing to say are, or will be, the poets that matter."
"One must read poetry with one's nerves."
"A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words."
"All poetry is experimental poetry."
"The fire burns as the novel taught it how."
"My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called "standing people. . . .""
"It is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea."
"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."
"What is one man among so many men? What are so many men in such a world? Can one man think one thing and think it long? Can one man be one thing and be it long?"
"Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point."
"The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay."
"The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to."
"Poetry is the scholar's art."
"It is time that beats in the breast and it is time That batters against the mind, silent and proud, The mind that knows it is destroyed by time."
"The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin."
"To lose sensibility, to see what one sees, As if sight had not its own miraculous thrift, To hear only what one hears, one meaning alone, As if the paradise of meaning ceased To be paradise, it is this to be destitute."
"She says, "But in contentment I still feel The need for imperishable bliss." Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams And our desires. Is there no change of death in paradise? Does ripe fruit never fall? or do the boughs Hang always heavy in that perfect sky, Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth, With rivers like our own that seek for seas They never find, the same receding shores That never touch with inarticulate pang?"