It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.

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.

The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.

Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.

One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.

The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.

The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book.