Minutes, foolish mortal, are the base mineralthat you must not let go of without extracting their gold!

Tell me, enigmatical man, whom do you love best, your father,Your mother, your sister, or your brother?I have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother.Your friends?Now you use a word whose meaning I have never known.Your country?I do not know in what latitude it lies.Beauty?I could indeed love her, Goddess and Immortal.Gold?I hate it as you hate God.Then, what do you love, extraordinary stranger?I love the clouds the clouds that pass up thereUp there the wonderful clouds!

Beauty, you walk on corpses, mocking them;

Isn't it true that a pleasant house makes winter more poetic, and doesn't winter add to the poetry of a house?

— ¡Ella llora, insensata, porque ella ha vivido! ¡Y porque vive! Pero, lo que ella deplora Sobre todo, lo que la hace temblar hasta las rodillas, Es que mañana, ¡ah! ¡tendrá que vivir todavía! ¡Mañana, pasado mañana y siempre! - ¡Como nosotros!

—Hypocrite lecteur,—mon semblable,—mon frère!

Looking from outside into an open window one never sees as much as when one looks through a closed window. There is nothing more profound, more mysterious, more pregnant, more insidious, more dazzling than a window lighted by a single candle. What one can see out in the sunlight is always less interesting than what goes on behind a windowpane. In that black or luminous square life lives, life dreams, life suffers.

La Nature est un temple où de vivants piliersLaissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles ;L'homme y passe à travers des forêts de symbolesQui l'observent avec des regards familiers.

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuéesQui hante la tempête et se rit de l’archer;Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,Ses ailes de géant l’empêchent de marcher.