The Only True Language In

Each Memorable Verse Of A True Poet Has Two Or Three Times The Written Content.

I Could Not Clearly Distinguish What Was Passing In My Head; It Seemed To Me That I Was Under The Influence Of A Horrible Dream And That I Had But To Awake To Find Myself Cured; At Times It Seemed That My Entire Life Had Been A Dream, Ridiculous And Childish, The Falseness Of Which Had Just Been Disclosed.

The Glass I Drink From Is Not Large, But At Least It Is My Own.

The Heart That Once Has Been Your Shrine For Other Loves Is Too Divine

A Lively Retrospect Summons Back To Us Once More Our Youth, With Vivid Reflex Of Its Early Joys And Unstained Pleasures.