Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall My buried life, and Paris in the spring, I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world To be wonderful and youthful afterall

To make an end is to make a beginning.

Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, every poem an epitaph.

And they write innumerable books; being too vain and distracted for silence: seeking every one after his own elevation, and dodging his emptiness.

Neither way is better. / Both ways are necessary. / It is also necessary / To make a choice between them.

Good poets borrow, great poets steal

My life is light, waiting for the death wind, Like a feather on the back of my hand.