O cold ! O shivery ! It was your ambrosial beauty. Forget, forgive. Kismet. Let me off this once.
My mouth is full of decayed teeth and my soul of decayed ambitions.
...rapid motion through space elates one.
You can still die when the sun is shining.
The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question.
He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music.