Poet's Food Is Love And Fame.

So Soon As This Want Or Power [of Love] Is Dead, Man Becomes The Living Sepulchre Of Himself, And What Yet Survives Is The Mere Husk Of What Once He Was.

The More We Study The More We Discover Our Ignorance.

The Wise Want Love; And Those Who Love Want Wisdom.

Worse Than Despair, Worse Than The Bitterness Of Death, Is Hope.

O, Wind, If Winter Comes, Can Spring Be Far Behind?