The poet is a bird of strange moods. He descends from his lofty domain to tarry among us, singing; if we do not honor him he will unfold his wings and fly back to his dwelling place.

Are you a politician asking what your country can do for you or a zealous one asking what you can do for your country? If you are the first, then you are a parasite; if the second, then you are an oasis in the desert.

For the vision of one man lends not its wings to another man.

I purified my lips with sacred fire that I might speak of love, but when I opened my mouth to speak, I found myself mute.

I said to Life, I would hear Death speak. And Life raised her voice a little higher and said, You hear him now.

The song of the voice is sweet, but the song of the heart is the pure voice of heaven.

Art arises when the secret vision of the artist and the manifestation of nature agree to find new shapes.