It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
How red the rose that is the soldier
Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
Cold is our element and winter's air Brings voices as of lions coming down.
After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption.
The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other.
Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.
Of what is real I say, Is it the old, the roseate parent or The bride come jingling, kissed and cupped, or else The spirit and all ensigns of the self?
One must have a mind of winter to regard the frost and the boughs of the pine trees, crusted with snow, And have been cold a long time, to behold the junipers, shagged with ice, the spruces, rough in the distant glitter of the January sun, and not to think of any misery in the sound of the wind, in the sound of a few leaves, which is the sound of the land, full of the same wind, blowing in the same bare place for the listener, who listens in the snow, and, nothing herself, beholds nothing that is not there, and the nothing that is.
The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.
Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
The winter is made and you have to bear it, The winter web, the winter woven, wind and wind, For all the thoughts of summer that go with it In the mind, pupa of straw, moppet of rags.
The subject matter... is not that collection of solid, static objects extended in space but the life that is lived in the scene that it composes.
Soldier, there is a war between the mind And sky, between thought and day and night. It is For that the poet is always in the sun, Patches the moon together in his room To his Virgilian cadences, up down, Up down. It is a war that never ends.
Life consists Of propositions about life. The human Revery is a solitude in which We compose these propositions, torn by dreams, By the terrible incantations of defeats And by the fear that the defeats and the dreams are one. The whole race is a poet that writes down The eccentric propositions of its fate.
God is gracious to some very peculiar people.
Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.
A diary is more or less the work of a man of clay whose hands are clumsy and in whose eyes there is no light.
Words of the world are the life of the world.
Funest philosophers and ponderers, Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
I measure myself Against a tall tree I find that I am much taller, For I reach right up to the sun With my eye; And I reach to the shore of the sea With my ear. Nevertheless, I dislike The way the ants crawl In and out of my shadow.
The word is the making of the world
Thus the theory of description matters most. It is the theory of the word for those For whom the word is the making of the world, The buzzing world and lisping firmament.
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