Hope thou not much, and fear thou not at all.

And the best and the worst of this is That neither is most to blame, If you have forgotten my kisses And I have forgotten your name.

Fruits fail and love dies and time ranges;Thou art fed with perpetual breath, and alive after infinite changes,And fresh from the kisses of death,Of langours rekindled and rallied, Of barren delights and unclean,Things monstrous and fruitless, a pallidAnd poisonous queen.

Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath;/ We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death

Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives.

There is no such thing as a dumb poet or a handless painter. The essence of an artist is that he should be articulate.

His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep.