Poetry will exist as long as there is a problem of life and death.

The America of Moctezuma and Atahualpa,the aromatic America of Columbus,Catholic America, Spanish America,the America where noble Cuauhtémoc said: "I….

The tree is happy because it is scarcely sentient; the hard rock is happier still, it feels nothing: there is no pain as great as being alive, ….

Pity for him who one day looks uponhis inward sphinx and questions it. He is lost..

You are a Universe of Universes And your Soul a source of Songs..

I seek a form that my style cannot discover,a bud of thought that wants to be a rose..

Sweet as sweetest Grecian honey will my song be when I sing, O Beloved, in the season of the Spring!.

The treacheries of ambition never cease..