“...But...to sing,to dream, to smile, to walk, to be alone, be free,with a voice that stirs and an eye that still can see!To cock your hat to one side, when you pleaseat a yes, a no, to fight, or- make poetry!To work without a thought of fame or fortune,on that journey, that you dream of, to the moon!Never to write a line that's not your own...”

“To sing, to laugh, to dream, to walk in my own way and be alone, free, with an eye to see things as they are, a voice that means manhood—to cock my hat where I choose—At a word, a Yes, a No, to fight—or write. To travel any road under the sun, under the stars, nor doubt if fame or fortune lie beyond the bourne—Never to make a line I have not heard in my own heart; yet, with all modesty to say: "My soul, be satisfied with flowers, with fruit, with weeds even; but gather them in the one garden you may call your own.”

“What would you have me do? Seek for the patronage of some great man,And like a creeping vine on a tall treeCrawl upward, where I cannot stand alone?No thank you! Dedicate, as others do,Poems to pawnbrokers? Be a buffoonIn the vile hope of teasing out a smileOn some cold face? No thank you! Eat a toadFor breakfast every morning? Make my kneesCallous, and cultivate a supple spine,-Wear out my belly grovelling in the dust?No thank you! Scratch the back of any swineThat roots up gold for me? Tickle the hornsOf Mammon with my left hand, while my rightToo proud to know his partner's business,Takes in the fee? No thank you! Use the fireGod gave me to burn incense all day longUnder the nose of wood and stone? No thank you!Shall I go leaping into ladies' lapsAnd licking fingers?-or-to change the form-Navigating with madrigals for oars,My sails full of the sighs of dowagers?No thank you! Publish verses at my ownExpense? No thank you! Be the patron saintOf a small group of literary soulsWho dine together every Tuesday? NoI thank you! Shall I labor night and dayTo build a reputation on one song,And never write another? Shall I findTrue genius only among Geniuses,Palpitate over little paragraphs,And struggle to insinuate my nameIn the columns of the Mercury?No thank you! Calculate, scheme, be afraid,Love more to make a visit than a poem,Seek introductions, favors, influences?-No thank you! No, I thank you! And againI thank you!-But...To sing, to laugh, to dreamTo walk in my own way and be alone,Free, with a voice that means manhood-to cock my hatWhere I choose-At a word, a Yes, a No, To fight-or write.To travel any roadUnder the sun, under the stars, nor doubtIf fame or fortune lie beyond the bourne-Never to make a line I have not heardIn my own heart; yet, with all modestyTo say:"My soul, be satisfied with flowers,With fruit, with weeds even; but gather themIn the one garden you may call your own."So, when I win some triumph, by some chance,Render no share to Caesar-in a word,I am too proud to be a parasite,And if my nature wants the germ that growsTowering to heaven like the mountain pine,Or like the oak, sheltering multitudes-I stand, not high it may be-but alone!”

“Cyrano: I can see him there---he grins---He is looking at my nose---that skeleton---What's that you say? Hopeless?---Why, very well!---But a man does not fight merely to win!No---no---better to know one fights in vain!...You there---Who are you? A hundred against one---I know them now, my ancient enemies---Falsehood!...There! There! Prejudice---Compromise---Cowardice---What's that? No! Surrender? No!Never---never!...Ah, you too, Vanity!I knew you would overthrow me in the end---No! I fight on! I fight on! I fight on!Yes, all my laurels you have riven awayAnd all my roses; yet in spite of you,There is one crown I bear away with me,And to-night, when I enter before God,My salute shall sweep all the stars awayFrom the blue threshold! One thing without stain,Unspotted from the world, in spite of doomMine own!---And that is...Roxane: ---That is...Cyrano: My white plume....”

“Speak to me...be eloquent, be brilliant for me. Improvise! Rhapsodize!... I ask for cream and you give me milk and water... Please gather your dreams together into words. - Roxanne, Cyrano de Bergerac”

“She is a mortal danger without meaning to be one; she's exquisite without giving ita thought; shes a trap set by nature, a rose in which love lies in ambush! Anyone who has seen her smile has known perfection. She creates grace without movement and makes all divinity fit into her slightest gesture.And neither Venus in her shell, nor Diana striding in the great, blossoming forest, can compare to her when she goes through the streets of paris in her sedan chair.”

“My soul, be satisfied with flowers,With fruit, with weeds even; but gather themIn the one garden you may call your own.”