He is haunted by a demon, a demon against which he feels powerless, because in its first manifestation it has no face, no name, nothing; and the words, the poem he makes, are a kind of exorcism of this demon.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

Turning Wearily, as one would turn to nod goodbye to Rochefoucauld, If the street were time and he as the end of the street.

The Nobel is a ticket to one's own funeral. No one has ever done anything after he got it.

Quick now, here, now, always- A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.

Friendship should be more than biting time can sever.

We can say of Shakespeare, that never has a man turned so little knowledge to such great account.