“That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.”

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.

All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.

The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world.

With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.

We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many Colored Grass.

As a poet and as a mathematician, he would reason well; as a mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at all.

I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind.

Mysteries force a man to think, and so injure his health.

Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see.

I intend to put up with nothing that I can put down.

Yet mad I am not and very surely do I not dream.

Imperceptibly the love of these discords grew upon me as my love of music grew stronger.