After the final no there comes a yes / And on that yes the future world depends.

There is nothing in life except what one thinks of it.

The fire burns as the novel taught it how.

Sigh for me, night-wind, in the noisy leaves of the oak. / I am tired. Sleep for me, heaven over the hill. / Shout for me, loudly and loudly, joyful sun, when you rise.

One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.

Poetry is the scholar's art.

The imagination is man's power over nature.

The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

There will never be an end To this droning of the surf.

There is no wing like meaning

If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.

Thought tends to collect in pools.

... unreal things have a reality of their own, in poetry as elsewhere.

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

Reality Is an Activity of the Most August Imagination.

It is a world of words to the end of it, / In which nothing solid is its solid self.

Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.

The partaker partakes of that which changes him. The child that touches takes character from the thing, the body, it touches.

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

I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.

Eyes dripping blue, so much to learn.

Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.

I like Rhine wine, blue grapes, good cheese, endive and lots of books, etc., etc., etc., as much as I like supreme fiction.

He brushed away the thunder, then the clouds, then the colossal illusion of heaven. Yet still the sky was blue.

I placed a jar in Tennessee and round it was upon a hill.

Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.

They said"You have a blue guitar You do not play things as they are". The man replied,"things as they are Are changed upon the blue guitar".

Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts it becomes an epidemic. p901

The old seraph, parcel-gilded, among violets Inhaled the appointed odor, while the doves Rose up like phantoms from chronologies.

The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.

Man is an eternal sophomore.

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

There is a perfect rout of characters in every man—and every man is like an actor’s trunk, full of strange creatures, new & old. But an actor and his trunk are two different things

From oriole to crow, note the decline In music. Crow is realist. But, then, Oriole, also, may be realist.

It is not in the premise that reality Is a solid. It may be a shade that traverses A dust, a force that traverses a shade.

After the final no there come a yes, and on that yes a future world depends.

Then the sea and heaven rolled as one and from the two came fresh transfigurings of freshest blue.

Desiring the exhilarations of changes: The motive for metaphor, shrinking from The weight of primary noon ...

The stars are putting on their glittering belts, They throw around their shoulders cloaks that flash Like a great shadow's last embellishment

Sentimentality is a failure of feeling. p.903

In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.

Accuracy of observation is the equivalent of accuracy of thinking.

Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.

Reality is the beginning not the end, Naked Alpha, not the hierophant Omega, Of dense investiture, with luminous vassals.

A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.

The wound kills that does not bleed.

They will get it straight one day at the Sorbonne. We shall return at twilight from the lecture Pleased that the irrational is rational