... Let the cage bird and the cage bird mate and the wild bird mate in the wild.

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

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.

Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.

We are fastened to a dying animal.

We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.