And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine Burned like the ruby fire set In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine, Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate, Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.

All charming people, I fancy, are spoiled. It is the secret of their attraction.

She doth mean the earth to me! By earth, I actually mean dust.

Poor? What does that matter? When poverty creeps in at the door, love flies in through the window.

I quite agree with Dr. Nordau's assertion that all men of genius are insane, but Dr. Nordau forgets that all sane people are idiots.

The emotions of man are stirred more quickly than man’s intelligence.

It is a curious fact that people are never so trivial as when they take themselves seriously