Go to the poets$$$ they will speak to thee<br>More perfectly of purer creatures--

...and in thy voice I catch the language of my former heart$$$ and read my former pleasures in the shooting lights of thy wild eyes.

Surprised by joy- impatient as the Wind<br>I turned to share the transport-- <br>Oh! with whom<br>But thee$$$ deep buried in the silent tomb$$$<br>That spot which no vicissitude can find?<br>Love$$$ faithful love$$$ recalled thee to my mind--<br>But how could I forget thee? <br>Through what power$$$<br>Even for the least division of an hour$$$<br>Have I been so beguiled as to be blind<br>To my most grievous loss?

Intellectual freedom depends upon material things.

Anyone who's worth anything reads just what he likes$$$ as the mood takes him$$$ and with extravagant enthusiasm.

These moments of escape are not to be despised. They come too seldom.

The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme$$$ the young translated into practice.

But when we sit together$$$ close$$$ said Bernard$$$ we melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory.

Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends can only read the title.

So long as you write what you wish to write$$$ that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours$$$ nobody can say.