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

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 shadow…

It is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea. When shall I come to say of the sun, It is a sea; it shares nothing; The sun no long…

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…

God is the perfect poet, Who in his person acts his own creations.

Nature loves to hide her secrets, and she does not suffer the hidden truth about the essential nature of the gods to be flung in naked words to the ears of the…

I do what many dream of, all their lives, --Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, And fail in doing. I could count twenty such On twice your fingers, and not…