My Heart Is Lost; The Beasts Have

The Study Of Beauty Is A Duel In Which The Artist Cries Out In Terror Before He Is Defeated.

The Poet Is A Kinsman In The Clouds Who Scoffs At Archers, Loves A Stormy Day; But On The Ground, Among The Hooting Crowds, He Cannot Walk, His Wings Are In The Way.

Nations, Like Families, Have Great Men Only In Spite Of Themselves.

What Men Call Love Is A Very Small, Restricted, Feeble Thing Compared With This Ineffable Orgy, This Divine Prostitution Of The Soul Giving Itself Entire, All Its Poetry And All Its Charity, To The Unexpected As It Comes Along, To The Stranger As He Passes.

Nothing Can Be Done Except Little By Little.