“I have observed dreams and visions very carefully, and am now certain that the imagination has some way of lighting on the truth that the reason has not, and that its commandments, delivered when the body is still and the reason silent, are the most binding we can ever know.”

Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?

If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.

Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody and bring them back to their right senses.

Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.

But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

There is another world, but it is in this one.

Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled. Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.

What can be explained is not poetry.

The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.

Think where man’s glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.

And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.

It seems to me that love, if it is fine, is essentially a discipline.

Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.

In dreams begins responsibility.

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

When two close kindred meet, What better than call a dance?

As evacuation eases the body, so occasional ejectment of passion seems to appease the agonies of the soul, and dispose to tranquility the agitations of the heart.

With the help of a friend I got father into a wagon, when the crowd had gone. I held his head in my lap during the ride home. I believed he was mortally wounded. He had been stabbed down through the kidneys, leaving an ugly wound.

It’s not the size of the nose that matters, it’s what’s inside that counts.

Death means my present physical costume ends.

The greatest love your body can know lies within it, not outside it.

I suppose, yes, I’ve been guilty of provocation but it’s also just common sense marketing – put a bottle of scent in a woman’s cleavage, or between her thighs – and men will notice.

A body of men holding themselves accountable to nobody ought not to be trusted by anybody.

On reaching the place where the Indians had surprised us, we found the bodies of the three men whom they had killed and scalped, and literally cut into pieces.