Of conflicts with others we make retorica, of conflicts with ourselves poetry

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry

A mermaid found a swimming lad, Picked him for her own, Pressed her body to his body, Laughed; and plunging down Forgot in cruel happiness That even lovers drown

Life moves out of a red flare of dreams into a common light of common hours, until old age bring the red flare again

Those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love

Life is a long preparation for something that never happens

Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph

I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. . . . The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth

How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart

We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.