Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.

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  The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question.

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  Shut your eyes and see.

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  I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call itself my home, my fatherland, or my church.

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  Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.

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  Love loves to love love.

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  One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.

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