Poetry Is As Precise A Thing As

In The Dark Room A Cloud Of Yellow Dust Flew From Beneath The Tool Like A Scatter Of Sparks From Under The Hooves Of A Galloping Horse. The Twin Wheels Turned And Hummed. Binet Was Smiling, His Chin Down, His Nostrils Distended. He Seemed Lost In The Kind Of Happiness Which, As A Rule, Accompanies Only Those Mediocre Occupations That Tickle The Intelligence With Easy Difficulties, And Satisfy It With A Sense Of Achievement Beyond Which There Is Nothing Left For Dreams To Feed On.

There Are Three Thing In The World I Love Most: The Sea, Hamlet, And Don Giovanni.

And He Beholds The Moon; Like A Rounded Fragment Of Ice Filled With Motionless Light.

It Is Always Sad To Leave A Place To Which One Knows One Will Never Return.

If You Knew All The Dreams I've Dreamed!