There is nothing stable in the world; uproar's your only music.
Wine is only sweet to happy men.
My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.
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.