All empty souls tend toward extreme opinions.

Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a while.

Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.

The unpurged images of day recede; The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed; Night resonance recedes, night-walkers' song After great cathedral gong.

What's memory but the ash That chokes our fires that have begun to sink?

There is only one romance the Soul's.

Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.