To write regular verses destroys an infinite number of fine possibilities, but at the same time it suggests a multitude of distant and totally unexpected thoughts.

In most cases, when the lion, weary of obeying its master, has torn and devoured him, its nerves are pacified and it looks round for another master before whom to grovel.

We hope vaguely but dread precisely.

In poetry everything which must be said is almost impossible to say well.

Poetry is to prose as dancing is to walking.

God created man and, finding him not sufficiently alone, gave him a companion to make him feel his solitude more keenly.

It seems to me that the soul, when alone with itself and speaking to itself, uses only a small number of words, none of them extraordinary.