Do not speak to us of the greatness of poetry, Of the torches wisping in the underground, Of the structure of vaults upon a point of light. There are no shadows in our sun, Day is desire and night is sleep. There are no shadows anywhere. The earth, for us, is flat and bare. There are no shadows.

So that's life, then: things are they are? It picks its way on the blue guitar. A million people on one string? And all their manner in the thing, And all thei…

The thinking of art seems final when The thinking of god is smoky dew.

If to serenade almost to man Is to miss, by that, things as they are, Say that it is the serenade Of a man that plays a blue guitar.

C'est ici le combat du jour ou de la nuit... Je vois de la lumiere noire.

I am not the light, I am the night; but a flame stabs through my entrails and consumes me. I am the night devoured by light.

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd…