If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.

It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.

But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.

For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.

Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.