Our bodies are molded rivers.
We touch heaven when we lay our hand on a human body!
The true Poet is all-knowing; he is an actual world in miniature.
Life must not be a novel that is given to us, but one that is made by us.
There is an energy which springs from sickness and debility: it has a more powerful effect than the real, but, sadly, expires in an even greater infirmity.
A complete need should not exist... love, life in common with loved ones?