Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.

The poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself and others, as he wishes.

Let us beware of common folk, of common sense, of sentiment, of inspiration, and of the obvious.

The habit of doing one's duty drives away fear.

I am the vampire at my own veins.

If wine were to disappear from human production, I believe it would cause an absence, a failure in health and intellect, a void much more terrifying than all the recesses and the deviations for which wine is regarded as responsible.

Blessed art Thou, Lord, who giveth suffering As a divine remedy for our impurities.