Although our love is waning, let us stand by the lone border of the lake once more, together in that hour of gentleness. When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.

If what I say resonates with you, it's merely because we're branches of the same tree.

How can we know the dancer from the dance?

The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.

We are fastened to a dying animal.

But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.

Evil comes to us men of imagination wearing as its mask all the virtues.