Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
Wine is only sweet to happy men.
Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
All writing is a form of prayer.
I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them; thou has thy music too.