The most dire disaster in love is the death of imagination.

Published memoirs indicate the end of a man's activity, and that he acknowledges the end.

Poetry is talking on tiptoe.

A house with a great wine stored below lives in our imagination as a joyful house, fast and splendidly rooted in the soil.

The future not being born, my friend, we will abstain from baptizing it.

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose, Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend . . . He reached a middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.

A human act once set in motion flows on forever to the great account. Our deathlessness is in what we do, not in what we are.