It is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing.
We are what we were at birth, and each trait has remained in conformity with earth's and with heaven's logic: Be the devil's tool, resort to black magic, None can diverge from the ends which Heaven foreordained.
What of it? We call them brave perhaps? Yes; what if the time should come when no one will fight for anything and there's nothing of worth to save.
When one cannot appraise out of one's own experience, the temptation to blunder is minimized, but even when one can, appraisal seems chiefly useful as appraisal of the appraiser.
You are not male nor female, but a plan deep-set within the heart of man.
Love, ah Love, when your slipknot's drawn, One can but say, Farewell, good sense.
I see no reason for calling my work poetry except that there is no other category in which to put it.
So wary as to disappear for centuries and reappear but never caught, the unicorn has been preserved by an unmatched device wrought like the work of expert blacksmiths...
What I write could only be called poetry because there is no other category to put it.
As contagion of sickness makes sickness, contagion of trust can make trust.
I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it after all, a place for the genuine.
If technique is of no interest to a writer, I doubt that the writer is an artist.
that which is impossible to force, it is impossible to hinder.
What is our innocence, what is our guilt? All are naked, none is safe.
A symbol from the first, of mastery, experiments such as Hippocrates made and substituted for vague speculation stayed the ravages of plague.