It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.
To what will love not stoop!
In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?
All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
The day you die is just like any other, only shorter.
Love requited is a short circuit.