I dreamed of Crusades, voyages of discovery that nobody had heard of, republics without histories, religious wars stamped out, revolutions in morals, movements of races and continents; I used to believe in every kind of magic. I began it as an investigation. I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

Morality is the weakness of the mind.

It was the voice of mad seas, roaring immense,/ That shattered your infant breast, too soft, too human.

I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.

The wolf howled under the leaves And spit out the prettiest feathers Of his meal of fowl: Like him I consume myself.

No one's serious at seventeen.

I shed more tears than God could ever have required.