The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight.

The eloquent man is he who is no eloquent speaker, but who is inwardly drunk with a certain belief

The poet knows that he speaks adequately, then, only when he speaks somewhat wildly.

Here is the world, sound as a nut, perfect, not the smallest piece of chaos left, never a stitch nor an end, not a mark of haste, or botching, or second thought; but the theory of the world is a thing of shreds and patches

The man who has seen the rising moon break out of the clouds at midnight has been present like an archangel at the creation of light and of the world

“I dream of a better tomorrow, where chickens can cross the road and not be questioned about their motives.”