There is no more steely barb than that of the Infinite.

I throw fresh seeds out. Who knows what survives?

This industry [photography], by invading the territories of art, has become art's most mortal enemy.

Here comes the time when, vibrating on its stem, every flower fumes like a censer; noises and perfumes circle in the evening air.

Everything for me becomes allegory

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.

You walk on corpses, beauty, undismayed.