"In my garden the winds have beaten the ripe lilies; in my garden, the salt has wilted the first flakes of young narcissus."

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He who without the Muse's madness in his soul comes knocking at the door of poesy and thinks that art will make him anything fit to be called a poet, finds that the poetry which he indites in his sober senses is beaten hollow by the poetry of madmen.

— Plato