I sat, just watching the moon creep up, and hearing the thin, dry rustle of the leaves along the holly hedge. And there came to me this thought: What is this Universe - that never had beginning and will never have an end - but a myriad striving to perfect pictures never the same, so blending and fading one into another, that all form one great perfected picture? And what are we - ripples on the tides of a birthless, deathless, equipoised Creative-Purpose - but little works of Art?

He is but a poor philosopher who holds a view so narrow as to exclude forms not to his personal taste. No realist can love romantic Art so much as he loves his…

Come! Let us lay a lance in rest, And tilt at windmills under a wild sky! For who would live so petty and unblest That dare not tilt at something ere he die; R…

Men fall, roughly speaking, into two flocks: Those whose intelligence is uninquiring in the face of Art, and does not demand to be appeased before their emotio…

I believe that any 'awareness' of life is 'spiritual' since awareness can only be a quality of the spirit not of the material world or of matter and machines. …

There is the view that poetry should improve your life. I think people confuse it with the Salvation Army.

Le monde est fait pour aboutir a un beau livre.