"Ethics are no more a part of poetry than theyare of painting."
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"Ethics are no more a part of poetry than theyare of painting."
"And what's above is in the past As sure as all the angels are."
"I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill."
"On a few words of what is real in the world I nourish myself. I defend myself against Whatever remains."
"Unless we believe in the hero, what is there To believe? Incisive what, the fellow Of what good. Devise. Make him of mud."
"So, too, if, to our surprise, we should meet one of these morons whose remarks are so conspicuous a part of the folklore of the world of the radio--remarks made without using either the tongue or the brain, spouted much like the spoutings of small whales--we should recognize him as below the level of nature but not as below the level of the imagination."
"The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing."
"That tuft of jungle feathers, That animal eye, Is just what you say. That savage of fire, That seed, Have it your way. The world is ugly, And the people are sad."
"God is gracious to some very peculiar people."
"Life is an affair of people not of places. But for me, life is an affair of places and that is the trouble."
"To name an object is to deprive a poem of three-fourths of its pleasure, which consists in a little-by-little guessing game; the ideal is to suggest."
"Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance."
"Poetry is poetry, and one's objective as a poet is to achieve poetry precisely as one's objective in music is to achieve music."
"Man is an eternal sophomore."
"The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other."
"The old brown hen and the old blue sky, Between the two we live and die The broken cartwheel on the hill."
"There's no such thing as life; or if there is, It is faster than the weather, faster than Any character. It is more than any scene: Of the guillotine or of any glamorous hanging."
"One must have a mind of winter to regard the frost and the boughs of the pine trees, crusted with snow, And have been cold a long time, to behold the junipers, shagged with ice, the spruces, rough in the distant glitter of the January sun, and not to think of any misery in the sound of the wind, in the sound of a few leaves, which is the sound of the land, full of the same wind, blowing in the same bare place for the listener, who listens in the snow, and, nothing herself, beholds nothing that is not there, and the nothing that is."
"The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose."
"The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, Since the imperfect is so hot in us, Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds."