[History is] that terrible mill in which sawdust rejoins sawdust.

If one is a greyhound, why try to look like a Pekingese?

I am one of those unhappy persons who inspire bores to the greatest flights of art.

All great poetry is dipped in the dyes of the heart.

The great sins and fires break out of me like the terrible leaves from the bough in the violent spring. I am a walking fire, I am all leaves.

The public will believe anything, so long as it is not founded on truth.

In the Augustan age ... poetry was ... the sister of architecture; with the romantics, and their heightened vowel-sense, resulting in different melodic lines, she became the sister of music; in the present day, she appears like the sister of horticulture, each poem growing according to the law of its own nature.