Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.
Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.
I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.
I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.
With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.
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.