You only have what you give. It’s by spending yourself that you become rich.
I know the colour rose, and it is lovely, But not when it ripens in a tumour; And healing greens, leaves and grass, so springlike, In limbs that fester are not springlike.
I hope to go into a poem sober and come out a little drunk. And if I do then that's a real poem.
Praying is another way of singing. You plant in the tree the soul of lemons. You plant in the gardens the spirit of roses.
Are all men in disguise except those crying?
Leave my soul alone, leave my soul alone
The theme of Death is to Poetry what Mistaken Identity is to Drama.
I just don't think Hillary Clinton has the presidential look.
In dreams we are true poets; we create the persons of the drama; we give them appropriate figures faces, costumes; they are perfect in their organs, attitudes, manners; moreover they speak after their own characters, not ours; and we listen with surprise to what they say.
Everything foreign is respected, partly because it comes from afar, partly because it is ready made and perfect.
I think a playwright realizes after he finishes working on the script that this is only the beginning. What will happen when it moves into three dimensions?