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

And, drunk with my own madness, I shouted at him furiously, "Make life beautiful! Make life beautiful!

Poetry has no goal other than itself; it can have no other, and no poem will be so great, so noble, so truly worthy of the name of poem, than one written uniquely for the pleasure of writing a poem.

A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way.

What do I care if you are good? Be beautiful! and be sad!

It would perhaps be nice to be alternately the victim and the executioner.

From his soft fur, golden and brown, Goes out so sweet a scent, one night I might have been embalmed in it By giving him one little pet. He is my household's guardian soul; He judges, he presides, inspires All matters in his royal realm; Might he be fairy? or a god? When my eyes, to this cat I love Drawn as by a magnet's force, Turn tamely back upon that appeal, And when I look within myself, I notice with astonishment The fire of his opal eyes, Clear beacons glowing, living jewels, Taking my measure, steadily.