“The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee.”

Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence.

There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion.

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.

He who does not travel, who does not read, who does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself, she who does not find grace in herself, dies slowly.

In the midst of winter, I find within me the invisible summer.

If the blind put their hands in God’s, they find their way more surely than those who see but have not faith or purpose.

I do not seek. I find.

I find myself absolutely fulfilled when I have written a poem.

A man always finds it hard to realize that he may have finally lost a woman’s love, however badly he may have treated her.

Those who look for the bad in people will surely find it.

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.