I love the majesty of human suffering.
Invisible is real. Souls have their own world.
The loveliest Muse in the world does not feed her owner; these girls make fine mistresses but terrible wives
Silence alone is great; all else is feebleness . . . Perform with all your heart your long and heavy task. . . . Then as do I, say naught, but suffer and die.
Poetry is the disease of the brain.
But it is the province of religion, of philosophy, of pure poetry only, to go beyond life, beyond time, into eternity.