There be those who say that things and places have souls, and there be those who say they have not; I dare not say, myself, but I will tell of The Street.

But some of us awake in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, of fountains that sing in the sun, of golden cliffs overhanging murmur…

When the last days were upon me, and the ugly trifles of existence began to drive me to madness like the small drops of water torturers let fall ceaselessly up…

It is only the inferior thinker who hastens to explain the singular and the complex by the primitive shortcut of supernaturalism.

There was a boy A very strange enchanted boy...

This Life is a fleeting breath, And whither and how shall I go, When I wander away with Death By a path that I do not know?

I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet, keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.