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

All thoughts emit a throw of dice

It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.

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.

As for me, Poetry takes the place of love, because it is enamored of itself, and because this self-lust has a delightful dying fall in my soul.

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.

Everything that is sacred and that wishes to remain so must envelop itself in mystery.