The priest has just baptized you a Christian with water; and I baptize you a Frenchman, daring child, with a dewdrop of champagne on your lips.
You explain nothing, O poet, but thanks to you all things become explicable.
Open your eyes! The world is still intact; it is as pristine as it was on the first day, as fresh as milk!
Every birth is a getting to know.
Doctor, do you think it could have been the sausage?
In a word, poetry can not exist without emotion, or, if you will, without a movement of the soul which regulates the words.