The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme.
You don’t make a poem with ideas, but with words.
Every soul is a melody which needs renewing.
The flesh, alas, is sad, and I have read all the books.
In reading, a lonely quiet concert is given to our minds; all our mental faculties will be present in this symphonic exaltation.