Even pain pricks to livelier living.

I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.

Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.

A black cat among roses, phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon, the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still. It is dazed with moonlight, contented with perfume.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.

Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.