A house with a great wine stored below lives in our imagination as a joyful house, fast and splendidly rooted in the soil.
Poetry is talking on tiptoe.
We never know what's in us till we stand by ourselves.
The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.
There is nothing the body suffers which the soul may not profit by.
The stench of the trail of Ego in our History. It is ego - ego, the fountain cry, origin, sole source of war.