“Sleep, those little slices of death – how I loathe them.”

The past is a pebble in my shoe.

Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.

That which you mistake for madness is but an overacuteness of the senses.

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!

A wise man hears one word and understands two.

All suffering originates from craving, from attachment, from desire.

If a poem hasn’t ripped apart your soul; you haven’t experienced poetry.

If a poem hasn’t ripped apart your soul; you haven’t experienced poetry.

False hope is nicer than no hope at all.

I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of beauty.

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

We loved with a love that was more than love.

The true genius shudders at incompleteness – imperfection – and usually prefers silence to saying the something which is not everything that should be said.

It is the nature of truth in general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial.

A lie travels round the world while truth is putting her boots on.