Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.
What can be explained is not poetry.
Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.
Words alone are certain good.
How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?