How much more beautiful is the moon, Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree; The moon Wavering across a bed of tulips; The moon, Still, Upon your face. You shine, Beloved, You and the moon. But which is the reflection?
Everything mortal has moments immortal
Youth condemns; maturity condones
All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.