We Ask Only To Be Reassured About

Distracted From Distraction By Distraction

The Poet's Mind Is In Fact A Receptacle For Seizing And Storing Up Numberless Feelings, Phrases, Images, Which Remain There Until All The Particles Which Can Unite To Form A New Compound Are Present Together.

Our Lives Are Mostly A Constant Evasion Of Ourselves, And Of Our Visible, Sensible World.

I've Been Born, And Once Is Enough.

It Is Obvious That We Can No More Explain A Passion To A Person Who Has Never Experienced It Than We Can Explain Light To The Blind.