All great poets become naturally, fatally, critics. - Charles Baudelaire

Late night, and like a medal in the sky
The harvest moon was beaming down,
And, like a river, the solemnity
Of night arranged on the sleeping town.

- Confession

The Beautiful is always strange.

— But why is she weeping? She, the perfect beauty, Who could put at her feet the conquered human race, What secret malady gnaws at those sturdy flanks? — She is weeping, fool, because she has lived! And because she lives! But what she deplores Most, what makes her shudder down to her knees, Is that tomorrow, alas! she will still have to live! Tomorrow, after tomorrow, always! — like us!