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 the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.

Two fundamental literary qualities: supernaturalism and irony.

He who looks through an open window sees fewer things than he who looks through a closed window.

So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, be endlessly drunk.

Love is the natural occupation of the man of leisure.

The Poet is like the prince of the clouds, who haunts the tempest and laughs at the archer. Exiled on the ground in the midst of the jeering crowd, his giant's wings keep him from walking.