Quotes About Perception

Of the Surface of Things In my room, the world is beyond my understanding; But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four Hills and a cloud.

The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.

It is never the thing but the version of the thing.

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

A change of style is a change of meaning.

From this the poem springs: that we live in a place That is not our own and, much more, not ourselves And hard it is in spite of blazoned days.

The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.

There is nothing in life except what one thinks of it.

Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.

unreal things have a reality of their own, in poetry as elsewhere.

He brushed away the thunder, then the clouds, then the colossal illusion of heaven. Yet still the sky was blue.

They said"You have a blue guitar You do not play things as they are". The man replied,"things as they are Are changed upon the blue guitar".

It is a world of words to the end of it, / In which nothing solid is its solid self.

Reality Is an Activity of the Most August Imagination.

It is not in the premise that reality Is a solid. It may be a shade that traverses A dust, a force that traverses a shade.

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

Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.

Bantams in Pine-Woods" Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan Of tan with henna hackles, halt! Damned universal cock, as if the sun Was blackamoor to bear your blazing tail. Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the personal. Your world is you. I am my world. You ten-foot poet among inchlings. Fat! Begone! An inchling bristles in these pines, Bristles, and points their Appalachian tangs, And fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.

Accuracy of observation is the equivalent of accuracy of thinking.

I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.

Gubbinal" That strange flower, the sun, Is just what you say. Have it your way. The world is ugly, And the people are sad. That tuft of jungle feathers, That animal eye, Is just what you say. That savage of fire, That seed, Have it your way. The world is ugly, And the people are sad.

In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.

A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.

Aún no habías nacido cuando los árboles eran cristal ni has nacido ahora, en esta vigilia dentro de un sueño.