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In poetry you must love the words the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.

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The poet is the priest of the invisible.

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A poem is a meteor.

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

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

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A pear should come to the table popped with juice,Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On termsLike these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.

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