A Poet is a bird of unearthly excellence, who escapes from his celestial realm and arrives in this world warbling. If we do not cherish him, he spreads his wings and flies back into his homeland.
The Poet is a light and winged thing, and holy, and never able to compose until he has become inspired, and is beside himself, and reason is no longer in him.
The Poet is a bad poet who is usually unconscious where he ought to be conscious, and conscious where he ought to be unconscious.
The Poet is a person who manages, in a lifetime of standing out in thunderstorms, to be struck by lightning five or six times.
If you die in Amsterdam and have no friends or family to mourn you, a poet and a civil servant will come together to have a respectful and personal funeral for you.
The Poet is a man who lives at last by watching his moods. An old poet comes at last to watch his moods as narrowly as a cat does a mouse.
Why do poets always write about the seaThey just can’t fathom her depths