We loved with a love that was more than love.
Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night.
Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.
I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.
Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.