But the problem is to make the soul into a monster

All day long he was docile, intelligent, good, Though sometimes changing to a darker mood. He seemed hypocritical, could tell better lies, in the dark he saw dots of colors behind closed eyes, clenched fists, put his tongue out at his elder brother.

I went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.

It began as research. I wrote of silences, of nights, I scribbled the indescribable. I tied down the vertigo.

I may die of earthly love, or of devotion.

A thousand Dreams within me softly burn: From time to time my heart is like some oak Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn.

Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!