It took dominion everywhere. The jar was gray and bare. It did not give of bird or bush, Like nothing else in Tennessee. - Wallace Stevens

"Lunar Paraphrase"

The moon is the mother of pathos and pity.

When, at the wearier end of November,
Her old light moves along the branches,
Feebly, slowly, depending upon them;
When the body of Jesus hangs in a pallor,
Humanly near, and the figure of Mary,
Touched on by hoar-frost, shrinks in a shelter
Made by the leaves, that have rotted and fallen;
When over the houses, a golden illusion
Brings back an earlier season of quiet
And quieting dreams in the sleepers in darkness — The moon is the mother of pathos and pity.

It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.

I like Rhine wine, blue grapes, good cheese, endive and lots of books, etc., etc., etc., as much as I like supreme fiction.