I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids/Sprouting despondently at area gates.

The soul is so far from being a monad that we have not only to interpret other souls to ourself but to interpret ourself to ourself.

Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.

Even traveling despondently is better than arriving here.

There is not a more repulsive spectacle than on old man who will not forsake the world, which has already forsaken him.

I had seen birth and death but had thought they were different.