We live in an old chaos of the sun.
Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.
To name an object is to deprive a poem of three-fourths of its pleasure, which consists in a little-by-little guessing game; the ideal is to suggest.
Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.