They speak incoherently and unnaturally, utter sound without sense, and their faces suddenly change expression. Then when they come to they say they don't know where they have been, in the body or outside it, awake or asleep. They cannot remember what they have heard or seen or said or done, except in a mist, like a dream. All they know is that they were happiest when they were out of their senses in this way, and they lament their return to reason, for all they want is to be made for ever with this kind of madness. And this is only the merest taste of the happiness to come.
Love is one of the Platonic forms of madness which stimulates the soul's ascent to beatitude.
The lunatic, the lover and the poet, Are of imagination all compact.