Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
God is gracious to some very peculiar people.
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
They said, 'You have a blue guitar, / You do not play things as they are.' / The man replied, 'Things as they are / Are changed upon the blue guitar.'
Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.