her lips touched his brain as they touched his lips, as though they were a vehicle of some vague speech

her arid seas, her silence

The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork,

invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.

We walk through ourselves...

and, as it is often found at war with its age, so it makes no account of history, which is fabled by the daughters of memory.

It speaks of what seems fantastic and unreal to those who have lost the simple intuitions which are the test of reality;

Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.

Think you're escaping and run into yourself.

No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.

Art is the human disposition of sensible or intelligible matter for an aesthetic end.

Shut your eyes and see.

her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown?

my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires