The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.

Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.

I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me.

After the final no there comes a yes / And on that yes the future world depends.

I do not know which to prefer,The beauty of inflectionsOr the beauty of innuendosThe blackbird whistlingOr just after.

The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.

We live in an old chaos of the sun.

One must read poetry with one's nerves.

The exceeding brightness of this early sunMakes me conceive how dark I have become.

The poem must resist the intelligenceAlmost successfully.

Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.

The Poem That Took The Place Of A MountainThere it was, word for word, The poem that took the place of a mountain. He breathed its oxygen, Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table. It reminded him how he had needed A place to go to in his own direction How he had recomposed the pines, Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds For the outlook that would be right, Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion: The exact rock where his inexactness Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged Where he could lie and gazing down at the sea, Recognize his unique and solitary home.

Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.

After the leaves have fallen, we returnTo a plain sense of things. It is as ifWe had come to an end of the imagination,Inanimate in an inert savoir.

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

The way through the worldIs more difficult to find than the way beyond it.

Poetry is the scholar's art.

Let be be finale of seem.The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

A poem is a meteor.

There will never be an endTo this droning of the surf.

I placed a jar in Tennessee and round it was upon a hill.

The Plot Against The GiantFirst GirlWhen this yokel comes maundering,Whetting his hacker,I shall run before him,Diffusing the civilest odorsOut of geraniums and unsmelled flowers.It will check him.Second GirlI shall run before him,Arching cloths besprinkled with colorsAs small as fish-eggs.The threadsWill abash him.Third GirlOh, la...le pauvre!I shall run before him,With a curious puffing.He will bend his ear then.I shall whisperHeavenly labials in a world of gutturals.It will undo him.

Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.

Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.

All history is modern history.

I know noble accentsAnd lucid, inescapable rhythms;But I know, too,That the blackbird is involvedIn what I know.

The truth is that there comes a time When we can mourn no more over music That is so much motionless sound

The mind can never be satisfied.

It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur.

Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.

It matters, because everything we sayOf the past is description without place, a castOf the imagination, made in sound;And because what we say of the future must portend,Be alive with its own seemings, seeming to beLike rubies reddened by rubies reddening.

Be the voice of night and Florida in my ear.Use dusky words and dusky images.Darken your speech.Speak, even, as if I did not hear you speaking,But spoke for you perfectly in my thoughts,Conceiving words,As the night conceives the sea-sounds in silence,And out of their droning sibilants makesA serenade.

He heard her low accord,Half prayer and half ditty,And He felt a subtle quiver,That was not heavenly love,Or pity.This is not writIn any book.

The villages slept as the capable man went down,Time swished on the village clocks and dreams were alive,The enormous gongs gave edges to their sounds,As the rider, no chevalere and poorly dressed,Impatient of the bells and midnight forms,Rode over the picket docks, rode down the road,And, capable, created in his mind,Eventual victor, out of the martyr's bones,The ultimate elegance: the imagined land.

THE POEMS OF OUR CLIMATEIClear water in a brilliant bowl, Pink and white carnations. The lightIn the room more like a snowy air, Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snowAt the end of winter when afternoons return.Pink and white carnations - one desiresSo much more than that. The day itselfIs simplified: a bowl of white, Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round,With nothing more than the carnations there.IISay even that this complete simplicityStripped one of all one's torments, concealedThe evilly compounded, vital IAnd made it fresh in a world of white,A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,Still one would want more, one would need more,More than a world of white and snowy scents.IIIThere would still remain the never-resting mind,So that one would want to escape, come backTo what had been so long composed.The imperfect is our paradise.Note that, in this bitterness, delight,Since the imperfect is so hot in us,Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.

It was soldier's went marching over the rocks,and still they came in watery flocks,because it was spring and the birds had to come,No doubt that soldier's had to be marching,and that the drums had to be rolling, rolling, rolling

For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds /Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Accuracy of observation is the equivalent of accuracy of thinking.

If there must be a god in the house, must be,Saying things in the rooms and on the stair,Let him move as the sunlight moves on the floor,Or moonlight, silently, as Plato's ghostOr Aristotle's skeleton. Let him hang outHis stars on the wall. He must dwell quietly.

Weight him, weight, weight him with the sleepiness of themoon.It was only a glass because he looked in it. It was nothing hecould be told.It was a language he spoke, because he must, yet did not know.It was a page he had found in the handbook of heartbreak.

There is a perfect rout of characters in every man—and every man is like an actor’s trunk, full of strange creatures, new & old. But an actor and his trunk are two different things

Consider the odd morphology of regret.

The law of chaos is the law of ideas,Of improvisations and seasons of belief.Ideas are men. The mass of meaning andThe mass of men are one. Chaos is notThe mass of meaning. It is three or fourIdeas, or, say, five men or, possibly, six.In the end, these philosophic assassins pullRevolvers and shoot each other. One remains.The mass of meaning becomes composed again.

The death of one god is the death of all.

A change of style is a change of meaning.

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

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

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

It is deep January. The sky is hard.The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.It is in this solitude, a syllable,Out of these gawky flitterings,Intones its single emptiness,The savagest hollow of winter-sound.

Desiring the exhilarations of changes: The motive for metaphor, shrinking fromThe weight of primary noon ...

Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.

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

The poet is the priest of the invisible.