The eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of sorrow

There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told.

We loved with a love that was more than love.

Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die.

Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors ... on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed.

As a viewed myself in a fragment of looking-glass..., I was so impressed with a sense of vague awe at my appearance ... that I was seized with a violent tremour.

I call to mind flatness and dampness; and then all is madness - the madness of a memory which busies itself among forbidden things.