You Don't Make A Poem With Ideas,

As For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because This Self-lust Has A Delightful Dying Fall In My Soul.

Everything In The World Exists In Order To End Up As A Book.

A Soul Trembling To Sit By A Hearth So Bright, To Exist Again, It’s Enough If I Borrow From Your Lips The Breath Of My Name You Murmur All Night.

The Poetic Act Consists Of Suddenly Seeing That An Idea Splits Up Into A Number Of Equal Motifs And Of Grouping Them; They Rhyme.

Paint, Not The Thing But The Effect Which It Produces.