What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.

Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.

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

Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

Intolerance respecting other people's religion is toleration itself in comparison with intolerance respecting other people's art.