The world was made in order to result in a beautiful book.

Poets don't finish poems, they abandon them.

I have made a long enough descent into the void to speak with certainty. There is nothing but beauty--and beauty has only one perfect expression, Poetry. All the rest is a lie.

The flesh is sad, alas, and I have read all the books.

In reading, a lonely quiet concert is given to our minds; all our mental faculties will be present in this symphonic exaltation.

A soul trembling to sit by a hearth so bright, To exist again, it’s enough if I borrow from Your lips the breath of my name you murmur all night.

There is only beauty / and it has only one perfect expression / poetry. All the rest is a lie /except for those who live by the body, love, and, that love of the mind, friendship. For me, Poetry takes the place of love, because it is enamored of itself, and because its sensual delight falls back deliciously in my soul.