When I was quite a boy I had a spasm of religion which lasted six weeks... But I never since have swallowed the Christian fable.
Prepare, You lovers, to know Love a thing of moods: Not like hard life, of laws.
As we to the brutes, poets are to us.
Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration in the moist breath of decay.
A house with a great wine stored below lives in our imagination as a joyful house, fast and splendidly rooted in the soil.
Lowly, with a broken neck, The crocus lays her cheek to mire.