The Devil pulls the strings which make us dance; We find delight in the most loathsome things; Some furtherance of Hell each new day brings, And yet we feel no horror in that rank advance.

The Poet is a kinsman in the clouds Who scoffs at archers, loves a stormy day; But on the ground, among the hooting crowds, He cannot walk, his wings are in the way.

To be a great man and a saint to oneself, that's the only important thing.

Multitude, solitude: equal and interchangeable terms for the active and prolific poet.

Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows, and all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone. I already hear the dead thuds of logs below falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.

Genius is simply childhood, rediscovered by an act of will.

You walk on corpses, beauty, undismayed.