I have read somewhere that in the Emperor's palace at Byzantium was a tree made of gold and silver, and artificial birds that sang.

A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.

It takes more courage to dig deep in the dark corners of your own soul and the back alleys of your society than it does for a soldier to fight on the battlefield.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.

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

Imagining in excited reverie That the future years had come, Dancing to a frenzied drum, Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

The light of lights looks always on the motive, not the deed, the shadow of shadows on the deed alone.