Prends l'e loquence et tords-lui son cou! Take eloquence and break its neck!

Here are fruits, flowers, leaves and branches, and here is my heart which beats only for you.

A poem is really a kind of machine for producing the poetic state by means of words.

The poet is a madman lost in adventure.

London, black as crows and noisy as ducks, prudish with all the vices in evidence, everlastingly drunk, in spite of ridiculous laws about drunkenness, immense, though it is really basically only a collection of scandal-mongering boroughs, vying with each other, ugly and dull, without any monuments except interminable docks.

A vast black sleep falls over my life sleep, all hope sleep, all desire.

A flat black bug, that is London.