The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.
Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age brings the red flare again.
O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head You'd know the folly of being comforted.
If soul my look and body touch, Which is the more blest?
Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.
In dreams begin responsibilitiy.