Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats 5 Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question … 10 Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

The naming of cats is a difficult matter

The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.

If time and space, as sages say, Are things which cannot be, The sun which does not feel decay No greater is than we. So why, Love, should we ever pray To live a century? The butterfly that lives a day Has lived eternity.

Where is the Life we lost in living?

Our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and of our visible, sensible world.

In order to arrive at what you are not, you must go through the way in which you are not.