"What distinguishes poetry from automatic speech is that it rouses and shakes us into wakefulness in the middle of a word. Then it turns out that the word is much longer than we thought, and we remember that to speak means to be forever on the road."

"...the mastodons with their rough and polished manners"

"What a face to come home to! Twinkling, mocking, and contrite."

A young poet once said to Mallarme, "I had the most marvellous idea for a poem this afternoon." "Oh dear," said Mallarme, "what a pity." "What do you mean?" said the young poet. "Well," said Mallarme, "poems aren't made of ideas, are they? They're made of words."