Poetry is the mother-tongue of the human race.

Physics is nothing but the ABC's. Nature is an equation with an unknown, a Hebrew word which is written only with consonants to which reason has to add the dots.

When I rest my feet my mind also ceases to function.

Hence it happens that one takes words for concepts, and concepts for the things themselves

What Tarquin the Proud said in his garden with the poppy blooms was understood by the son but not by the messenger.

What for others is style, for me is soul.

All human wisdom works and has worries and grief as reward.