You don't make a poem with ideas, but with words.

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.

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

The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme.

Everything in the world exists in order to end up as a book.

Paint, not the thing but the effect which it produces.

You don't make a poem with ideas, but with words.