Hour of Stars (1920) The round silence of night, one note on the stave of the infinite. Ripe with lost poems, I step naked into the street. The blackness riddled by the singing of crickets: sound, that dead will-o'-the-wisp, that musical light perceived by the spirit. A thousand butterfly skeletons sleep within my walls. A wild crowd of young breezes over the river.

To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.

As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die.

Today in my heart a vague trembling of stars and all roses are as white as my pain.

There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them.

New York is something awful, something monstrous. I like to walk the streets, lost, but I recognize that New York is the world's greatest lie. New York is Senegal with machines.

The theater has to impose itself on the public, and not the public on the theater... The word "Art" should be written everywhere, in the auditorium and in the dressing rooms, before the word "Business" gets written there.