Finality is death. Perfection is finality. Nothing is perfect. There are lumps in it.
A woman is a branchy tree and man a singing wind; and from her branches carelessly he takes what he can find.
The duty of a lyrical poet is not to express or explain, it is to intensify life.
Can a spear divine the Eternal Will?
What the heart knows today the head will understand tomorrow.
Because our lives are cowardly and sly, Because we do not dare to take or give, Because we scowl and pass each other by, We do not live; we do not dare to live.