All thoughts emit a throw of dice
Poets don't finish poems, they abandon them.
The world exists to end up in a book.
Every soul is a melody which needs renewing.
O naked flower of my lips, you lie! I await a thing unknown or perhaps, unaware of the mystery and your cries you give, O lips, the supreme tortured moans of a childhood groping among its reveries to sort out finally its cold precious stones.
Paint, not the thing but the effect which it produces.